Remembering River City
by Marianne Greenleaf
Summary: A companion piece to Remembering Paris. As Harold Hill struggles with estrangement from Marian in the months after their return from Paris, his difficulties are only compounded when he can't get the adoring glance of a pretty River City widow out of his head...
1. Goodnight, My Someone

_There were many young ladies among the River City-ziens alone who were just as pretty, just as charming, just as well-dressed as Miss Marian – even if the librarian did possess an undeniable air of sophistication and erudition the other female townspeople lacked. But just like the librarian, they all stared at Professor Hill with rapt, dreamy-eyed bliss. As besotted as the charming showman might be with Miss Marian at present, he had dozens of pretty lasses making cow's eyes at him and perhaps even waiting patiently in the wings; one of them would surely catch his fancy once the novelty of marriage wore off!_  
_~Triumph of the Early Bird, chapter 1: Oh, I Could Write a Sonnet_

_But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart._  
_~Matthew 5:28, King James Bible_

XXX

When Harold Hill's eyes met Lisette Latimer's for the first time, he knew he was in trouble.

It wasn't the first time a woman in River City had looked at him _that_ way, and it most likely wouldn't be the last. And though Mrs. Latimer was pretty, with her soft brown eyes and pleasant smile, she wasn't so stunningly gorgeous as to make a fellow's pulse race as soon as he laid eyes on her. Overall, her looks tended more toward the commonplace and unremarkable, much like her personality – she was a quiet, unassuming woman who easily faded into the background. The only reason Harold knew her name or even registered her presence was because her son Billy was a member of his boys' band. What's more, he had a soft spot for Billy, whose father had died only a year ago – the lad was yet another fatherless boy who loved and looked up to the music professor.

But it wasn't the widow's prettiness that captivated Harold, it was the way she was looking at him that made his heart beat faster. He was standing in the center of Madison Park pavilion, basking in the applause following yet another successful summer's-end parade. As the music professor gloried in the adoration of the crowd, he happened to spot Mrs. Latimer on the fringes of the throng, peering out at him from the alcove where Marian had once been ensconced with Fred Gallup during the Easter parade all those years ago. And the widow was staring at him with such a naked, unconcealed look of longing that his breath caught in his throat and beads of sweat broke out over his forehead as he felt that familiar jolt of desire in the pit of his stomach. The phenomenon of women gazing starry-eyed in his direction after the conclusion of a concert was nothing new to Harold, though up until today, such gazes had only ever inspired indifference or amusement. While the music professor was too canny a showman to let his cheerful demeanor flag even when he was so unexpectedly knocked off balance, he was in imminent danger of losing his composure if he continued to gaze in that particular direction. Quickly turning his eyes elsewhere, Harold stuffed his hands in his pockets in a desperate search for his handkerchief. What the hell was the matter with him, that he was all of a sudden feeling this way?

After having lain happily dormant for the past decade, that insidious voice of wanderlust immediately piped up with the disquieting but inexorable truth he'd been trying so valiantly to ignore for some time now: In Lisette Latimer's look of longing was every single thing that had been missing from Marian's embrace since their return from Paris – the promise of novelty, excitement, and a little bit of danger.

It had been over two months since the music professor and librarian had come back from their second honeymoon. Paris was an expensive jaunt, but worth every penny; this trip proved to be a delightful and much-needed rekindling of their passion after twelve years of a loving but increasingly staid marriage. But while Harold had come home even more in love with Marian than he was before, he was gradually finding that his wife did not quite share his enthusiasm for their renewed ardor. While she was not so hardhearted as to rebuff his advances in the library stacks or reject his invitations to take strolls to the footbridge, there was something intangible but distinctly lacking in her demeanor whenever he attempted to steal a moment or two for romance in the midst of their busy lives as parents and pillars of the community.

While the music professor was just as careful to exercise restraint in public as he'd always been, it irked him that his wife would not welcome even the chastest of kisses or caresses if their daughters were in the vicinity – even when they were in the privacy of their own home! And while Marian seemed to take just as much pleasure as she ever had in their lovemaking, she no longer initiated any of their trysts. Almost immediately upon their return home, she had reverted to the reticent Victorian wife, locking away all of her Paris outfits and lingerie in a trunk and once again becoming a model of immaculate propriety that he had to coax into letting her hair down. Although Harold always enjoyed a good chase and had previously reveled in teaching the librarian all the exhilarating ways it was possible to make love, he found himself dearly missing the Marian who brazenly seduced him on trains and avidly demonstrated just how inventive _she_ could be in the bedroom…

Where _was_ that damn handkerchief? Harold had completely turned out his pockets, which contained every useful item he might need in a pinch – _except_ that scrap of cloth. While he wasn't a superstitious man, it only compounded the ominous twinge in his gut that he'd somehow misplaced the monogrammed handkerchief his wife had lovingly embroidered for him. Just as he was about to abandon decorum and use his sleeve, there was a tap on his shoulder.

The music professor turned. Marian was regarding him with an indulgent smile and holding just the item he'd been looking for. "I thought you might forget, so I made sure to carry an extra one, just in case."

As Harold gratefully took the handkerchief from her outstretched hand, he felt that familiar and comforting rush of love for his sweet and thoughtful wife. But while she looked lovely in her coral silk crepe chiffon dress with matching cloche hat – not one of the dazzling ensembles she'd purchased in Paris, but stylish and elegant nevertheless – he did not feel that intense jolt of desire in his stomach as he gazed at the librarian. If truth be told, he hadn't been deeply arrested by the sight of Marian since… well, Paris.

As the music professor wiped the perspiration from his brow, he chanced a furtive look around Madison Park. The crowd had thinned out considerably, and Mrs. Latimer was gone from the alcove. But as Harold's eyes swept the spot where she'd sat and he recalled her come-hither glance, a pleasant shiver ran through him… followed by a fresh wave of perspiration and burst of annoyance. Was his wanderlust really starting to resurface now, so deep into his marriage? Ever since he'd fallen in love with Marian, no other woman had ever turned his head to this degree. However, although it had been exceedingly easy to remain wholly faithful to Marian over the past twelve years, he was a fool to believe he'd never again encounter the temptation to explore greener pastures. Especially when those pastures so blatantly beckoned him onward…

_Enough_, his conscience chided. It would do no good to continue contemplating Mrs. Latimer's heated glance – that would only lead to his undoing. And Harold would _not_ be undone by a pretty face, no matter how enticing its gaze. While he could not escape the baseness of his nature, he was no longer such a slave to it as he had been in his youth. The allure of a pretty stranger paled in the face of losing everything that truly mattered to him. His family, reputation and livelihood would all be in jeopardy if he gave these capricious – and most likely fleeting – fancies any further credence.

As Penny and Elly finished saying farewell to their friends and tromped over to join their parents on the pavilion, Harold turned to Marian and was heartened to see her regarding him with that fiercely loyal, affectionate beam that never failed to boost his confidence and make him think he could overcome anything. For the first time since his eyes had the misfortune to wander over to that hidden alcove, his grin was genuine. Finding the librarian's hand for a surreptitious squeeze that she eagerly returned, he said with real warmth, "Let's go home."

XXX

The only thing more exhilarating than a successful boys' band concert was the heated night that followed after the festivities concluded. In his exuberance, Harold was usually all over Marian the moment they walked into their front hall and closed the front door on the world, and she embraced him just as avidly; sometimes they didn't even make it to the parlor sofa before thoroughly ravishing each other, let alone all the way upstairs to their bedroom!

But even if they'd been so inclined, the music professor and librarian couldn't do any of that tonight. While Harold had always made arrangements for their daughters to stay elsewhere during these occasions, Marian had roundly vetoed the idea of sending Penny and Elly to a sleepover or even to a movie – last week, the girls were caught passing notes to each other in Miss Meadows' math class. While the music professor agreed that it wasn't the best of ideas to award their misbehavior, he was rather annoyed when his wife wouldn't even consider his suggestion of sending them to their grandmother's. But Marian insisted that her mother would violate the terms of their punishment by feeding the girls sweets and allowing them to stay up past their bedtime. Even if it put a crimp into their own plans, it was far more important for them to demonstrate to their daughters that waywardness had serious consequences; the girls would never learn self-control if they were given so much leeway.

So even though it was a lovely Saturday night after yet another successful concert, no one was happy in the Hill house. Penny and Elly were not only home and underfoot, they glowered all throughout dinner. The girls enjoyed their post-parade celebrations as much as their parents did, and they were not pleased to have to miss out on all the fun their friends were surely having. Although they knew better than to protest their mother's stern decree and made sure to reply in a scrupulously polite manner when spoken to, they didn't bother hiding their scowls. Normally, Marian would have scolded them for pouting so blatantly at the table, but her demeanor was oddly subdued, and she let their thundercloud expressions endure without comment. Maybe she was missing Harold just as much as he was missing her? Yet that didn't seem to be the case; even after she allowed the girls to excuse themselves – they were to go right upstairs for a bath – she cleared the table and did the washing up without even tossing so much as a small smile in Harold's direction, let alone that encouraging beam she graced him with earlier.

While the music professor had gotten used to playing second fiddle to the numerous and constant tasks required to keep their household shipshape in the months since their return from Paris, for his wife to display such indifference to him on the night after a concert was galling. But he did note that Marian's complexion was unusually wan this evening and that she had only picked at her food during the meal, so even as it rankled him to see her bustling around as briskly as she ever did, he couldn't fault her for being a bit too under the weather to welcome any ardent advances.

Lest he nettle his harried wife even further, Harold retreated to the music room. But in the immediate aftermath of a performance, there wasn't much for him to do there except twiddle his thumbs or plink out a tune on the piano, two occupations which he had absolutely no patience for at the moment. Playing the trumpet – his preferred instrument – was out of the question, as it was nearly Penny and Elly's bedtime, and he didn't wish to disturb them or the neighbors.

So Harold decided to go up to bed. Although he was always loath to admit it, he _was_ tired, and it would behoove him to seize this opportunity to catch up on the sleep he'd missed out on in the previous weeks spent preparing for the parade. After looking in on the girls – whose scowls softened long enough to give their beloved father a goodnight kiss – he adjourned to the washroom for a quick bath, himself. Donning a fresh union suit afterward – the weather was still too humid for proper pajamas, despite it being September – the music professor slid between the sheets of the bed he and the librarian shared. The cool, clean-smelling linens both soothed and saddened him; while he appreciated all the trouble Marian went to in order to provide him with a cozy and immaculate nest in which to lay his head each night, the pristine tidiness of their bedclothes only served as a vexing reminder of how little activity their bed had seen recently.

Not that this unsatisfying state of affairs was entirely Marian's fault. In the days leading up to a concert, Harold was always so busy with rehearsals and all the other details that went into producing a successful performance that he didn't have enough time to catch a decent night's sleep, let alone engage in lovemaking. Of course, he always made sure to atone for this privation the evening _after_ the concert, which made tonight's lack of opportunity to let off any steam whatsoever doubly frustrating. And it certainly didn't help his already-tenuous sense of equanimity when that pretty widow – a _true_ sadder-but-wiser girl – looked at him as if she wanted to eat him up right then and there, duty and propriety be damned!

Thankfully, before Harold's mind could wander too far in that dangerous direction, the bedroom door creaked open and Marian glided into the room. As she wasn't wearing anything terribly exciting – just her everyday gingham dressing gown – he expected her to slip quietly into bed next to him. But instead, she sat down at her vanity and turned on a lamp, and as she brushed out her golden curls, he was relieved to see her complexion had recovered its usual robust color.

Once Marian had finished the last of her evening ablutions, she turned to face Harold with a come-hither glance. "Are you awake, darling?" she whispered in the throaty voice that always drove him wild.

Harold's heart immediately began to beat faster, and he contemplated reaching out and pulling her right into bed with him. But out of curiosity – as well as not wanting to get his hopes up _too_ high lest he was mistaken about the signals she was sending him – he decided to wait and see what the librarian had in mind. "Yes," he whispered back.

Giving him that wonderful beam he'd been missing, Marian climbed into bed next to him. Before he could roll onto his side in order to greet her properly, her small but strong hands were running over his back, kneading the kinks out of his muscles.

"Ohh," Harold groaned happily, glad that he'd had the forbearance to avoid pouncing on her straightaway.

"I thought you might like that," his wife said indulgently. "You've been working too hard – it's bound to catch up to you sooner or later." She planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "Congratulations on another wonderful parade, darling."

Though the music professor was tempted to simply remain still and enjoy Marian's tender ministrations, he feared he would drift off to sleep before he could properly reciprocate, and he wasn't about to let this rare opportunity slip between his fingers. Rolling over to face his wife, Harold pulled her into his arms for a long, deep kiss – which she eagerly returned as her fingers hastily worked him free of his union suit. Likewise, his fingers frantically undid the fastenings of her dressing gown. When he brushed bare skin instead of a camisole, he was surprised enough to end their kiss and gaze quizzically at Marian, even as his hands continued to hungrily roam her curves from her delectable breasts all the way down to her drawer-less thighs. While he'd known better than to hope for one of her Paris specials, he couldn't remember the last time the librarian had come to bed wearing absolutely _nothing_ beneath her dressing gown. Harold was already hard for her, but this realization sent a jolt of pure lust to the pit of his stomach – the very spark he was terrified had died – that only intensified his arousal.

"You planned this all along, you little vixen," he said approvingly.

Letting her robe fall away and rolling the music professor flat on his back, Marian straddled him with a blushing but arch smile. "Even if the girls had to be home tonight, I didn't see why we couldn't have at least a _little_ time to ourselves – "

She was cut off mid-sentence, letting out a sharp moan as Harold grasped her hips and thrust upward. She was so wet he slid into her easily, and this proof that she'd worked herself up into a lather thinking about this all evening sent him into overdrive. Pulling the librarian down to him, he crushed her mouth against his and set a furious pace that she matched effortlessly, further demonstrating that she was just as desperate for him as he was for her. It had been ages since Marian was this bold and wild with him, unabashedly gasping heated encouragements into his ear as she tugged his hands to her breasts and her backside and everywhere else she wanted him to touch her.

Yet for all that, they couldn't lose themselves completely in each other, lest they wake their daughters up. Despite the music professor's disappointment of not being able to hear Marian's ecstasy or express his own to the fullest, there was something excruciatingly erotic about seeing her bite her lip raw and feeling her nails dig into his shoulders in the struggle to stifle her screams of delight as he brought her to climax again and again. So while it wasn't quite Paris, it was pretty damn close.

But more importantly, as they made love, Harold's heart was pounding and his pulse was racing only for Marian, all thoughts of admiring strangers thoroughly knocked out of his head.


	2. It's You on My Pillow

The next morning, Harold descended the stairs with a spring that hadn't been in his step for quite awhile. And although Marian's back was to him when he gamboled into the kitchen, she definitely noticed.

"My goodness, Harold!" she admonished, looking up from the pan she'd been vigorously scrubbing. "You're as bad as the girls, when it comes to thundering into a room."

While there was a rather sharp edge to her voice, the corners of her lips were turned up in a smirk, which softened the effect of her scolding. Harold was a bit surprised that his wife's annoyance wasn't entirely feigned, but he was in too good of spirits to let this bother him. A delectable Sunday-morning breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast was artfully arranged on the kitchen table – Marian always insisted on cleaning the cooking dishes before sitting down to eat, and he had long ago stopped trying to talk her out of doing this unnecessary extra work – but although he looked forward to tucking into the meal eventually, he was never so hungry for food as he was for lovemaking.

Wrapping his arms around the librarian's waist, Harold purred in the low, velvety voice that never failed to make her melt, "Well, as I demonstrated last night, I'm _very_ good at staying quiet when circumstances demand… "

Instead of flirting back, Marian let out a short, sardonic laugh, her busy fingers not even breaking their stride.

Still undeterred, Harold's hands meandered upward to cup her breasts. But he'd barely touched them when she tutted and twitched out of his embrace.

His hands fell to his sides. Although he was miffed by his wife's curt dismissal of his overtures, his pique was quickly overridden by concern – the only time she was this cold to him was when she was ill. "Marian?" he asked mildly, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.

Her hands finally stilled, and she bowed her head. "I'm a little… _tender_ in that particular area," she finally admitted, in a tone that was both repentant and filled with maidenly delicacy. "And I have a headache."

Relieved that her symptoms were nothing out of the ordinary – and surmising from them that her courses were due to begin any day now – Harold leaned in and gave his wife a gentle kiss on her throbbing temple. He recalled that she had been even more eager than usual for him to fondle and kiss her breasts last night, which only confirmed his suspicion, as they became particularly sensitive around her time of the month. But from long experience, he had learned that this boon was a double-edged sword – when she was _not_ already aroused, she couldn't bear for him to even brush her breasts lightly with his fingers.

Still, with a little patience and finesse, he might be able to revive the romantic mood between them and give them both something delightful to anticipate for later this evening. Harold began by kneading Marian's shoulders and spine, and it wasn't long before she was leaning back into his ministrations and sighing happily. He'd already won half the battle of getting the librarian hot and bothered – it was time to make his move. Craning his head, the music professor began to softly kiss her neck. As she tilted her head to grant his mouth greater access, he progressed to love-bites, which only increased the intensity of her breathing. For his final coup, he once again traced his hands up her curves to cup her breasts. This time, his wife moaned and leaned forward into his touch. Normally, Harold would have grinned after having so adroitly achieved total victory, but he'd fallen just as thoroughly into his own trap – tightening his hold on Marian, he pressed his suddenly excruciating erection into her backside to show her just how much he wanted – no, _needed_ – her. "We don't have to eat breakfast _right_ this minute, do we?"

"Oh, but we really should," she gasped, somehow still managing to cling to reason even as her body hungrily swayed in time with his thrusts. But as Marian spoke, she turned in his arms to face him. At that, he propped her up on the counter and stepped between her thighs, which immediately opened to welcome him.

Still, even after Harold started kissing her breasts in earnest, she continued to demur. "I've still got the rest of the dishes to finish up, and by the time I'm done we'll have to start eating or we'll be late for church. We always have tonight… "

"I can't wait that long," Harold growled as he thrust against her, not caring how desperate he sounded or attempting to hide the naked pleading in his voice. He could _feel_ the heat of arousal between Marian's thighs even as the layers of clothing between them inexorably prohibited more intimate congress. In the state he was in, he'd be lucky to make it fifteen minutes without scratching this itch – let alone all the way until tonight!

But not only did the Hill family have church to attend, Mrs. Paroo was hosting a family brunch afterward, which was sure to stretch all the way into suppertime. And even though the matron was always willing to look after her beloved granddaughters, they couldn't let Penny and Elly spend the evening because it was a school night, and they couldn't even slip away for a few hours later this afternoon because it would violate the terms of the girls' punishment.

However, Harold wasn't thinking about any of that. All he was thinking was just how easy it would be to make love to his wife right then and there – not only were her legs wrapped firmly around his hips, her arms had wound their way around his neck and she was holding him steadfastly against her. In their enraptured haze, both the music professor and the librarian had forgotten they weren't alone in the house. Harold's eager fingers were fumbling to brush the fabric of Marian's skirt and drawers out of the way – while skirts had gotten much shorter during this decade, drawers were no longer split-seam, which actually made illicit hanky panky slightly more difficult. But perhaps it was a good thing he had to work a little harder for it nowadays. The music professor's hand had just barely managed to brush silky wetness when two sets of footsteps came galumphing down the stairs; had the librarian been attired in one of her Edwardian ensembles of yore, his fingers would have been deep inside of her.

Their prelude rudely shattered, husband and wife immediately moved apart and smoothed out their disheveled clothing. By the time Penny and Elly bounded into the kitchen, clamoring for their breakfast, Marian was once again hunched over the sink, seemingly engrossed in getting the stubborn egg residue off of the pan, while Harold was sitting at the table as coolly and casually as if he'd been thus reclined for the entire time he was downstairs.

XXX

That night, Harold moved right in to kiss Marian the moment they were finally alone together. And that happened to be in the music room; he'd been perusing scores with Penny while Elly played a duet with her mother on the piano. Once the librarian sent the girls upstairs to get ready for bed at eight o'clock sharp, as she did every evening, the music professor took the seat his younger daughter had vacated and pulled his wife into his arms.

But his lips had barely touched hers when she laughed and shook her head. "I _knew_ you were going to pounce on me right away."

Marian's tone was as indulgent as it was teasing, but it irked Harold. He didn't want to be _indulged_, as if he were a naughty boy angling for a treat that perhaps he did not deserve; he wanted his wife to be as impatient to make passionate love to him as he was to her. And he thought she had been waiting for tonight to arrive just as eagerly as he was – while she'd modestly avoided giving him so much as a handclasp in public, she'd been wearing her small, secret smile all afternoon as their family blithely chattered around them. It might have been easier on Harold if he could have escaped to the emporium for a little while, because at least he wouldn't have had to _see_ his wife wanting him. During their heated interlude in the kitchen that morning, he'd already gotten his fill of more than enough of the librarian to tantalize and frustrate him in the long hours ahead. Having her right before his eyes and not being able to do a damn thing but watch her anticipation was maddening!

But now that it was finally tonight, Harold refused to be disappointed by Marian's underwhelmed demeanor. Being in her presence all day had made him absolutely confident their forbearance this morning had borne fruit. "Don't act like you weren't also waiting for this moment, my dear little librarian," he admonished in his most velvety voice, giving her a hard kiss on the side of her neck.

Marian let out that low, throaty laugh that always went straight to below his belt. "Ohh, Harold," she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into his caresses even as she insisted, "I just don't think it would be a good idea to get too carried away before we're absolutely certain the girls won't interrupt us. Heaven forbid they burst in unannounced and see their parents pawing at each other like a couple of teenagers – oh!"

Heedless of her admonitions, Harold's hand had undone the pearly buttons down the front of her blouse and slipped beneath the fabric of her camisole; he was now tracing delicate circles on her nipple with his thumb. Just as he'd hoped, her breasts were still extremely sensitive; he'd barely brushed them with his fingers before her nipples grew erect. Having correctly guessed that this would be the quickest route to getting his wife into the spirit of things, he now reaped his full reward – the librarian's mouth enveloped his in the long, deep and hungry kiss he'd been waiting for.

But once again, the promising prelude between husband and wife was shattered. As they parted breathlessly and began to undo each other's fastenings, a loud bang reverberated throughout the house, shortly followed by a second crash.

Marian's exhalations turned irritated. "Penny! Elly! Stop slamming doors!"

A door swung open. "Sorry, Mom!" the girls chorused.

Clearly not in a mood to let anyone win, the librarian further scolded, "And how many times have I told you – don't shout across the house! It's not ladylike!"

Even Harold knew better than to grin at this blatant hypocrisy. Not that he was in the mood to do any grinning. It wasn't the first time they'd been interrupted by their dear daughters, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but it was more than he could take right now.

Still, the music professor figured it would do little good to argue. "On that note, you ought to go up and tuck the girls in," he said briskly, standing up and refastening his trousers.

However, moving away from the librarian only exacerbated his arousal; the sight of her disheveled curls and undone blouse made his heart even beat faster. But he refused to allow himself to get _too_ excited, even as his wife remained seated on the piano bench and regarded him with bewildered eyes. "You'll probably also want to check the walls for new scratches," he suggested in a tone that came out sounding a bit more petulant than he intended.

He braced himself for the quarrel that would inevitably follow, but Marian blinked and then bit her lip, as if thinking. Harold's breath caught in his throat and hope began to bubble up in the pit of his stomach…

"I suppose you're right," she finally said with a sigh. "The girls have probably done quite a number on the woodwork!"

Harold's shoulders slumped right along with hers. But he managed to find a smile – his flashy showman's grin, but it would have to do – and pasted it on his face. "While you're seeing to the girls, I'll straighten up in here." He gestured at the surrounding stacks of paper broadly and expansively, which was appropriate when he was leading the band but a little too overdone for a husband attempting to convince his wife nothing was weighing on his mind.

A spark of alarm flashed through Marian's gaze. She blinked and bit her lip again. This time, Harold not only flattened that pitiful little fizz of hope, he attempted to coax his wife onward. "And don't wait up for me – I'll come upstairs after I put everything away."

But the librarian surprised him. "Stay here, Harold," she entreated. "After the girls are in bed, I'll come back downstairs."

Although both her voice and expression were alluringly come-hither, the music professor sensed that his wife's invitation wasn't entirely issued out of enthusiastic longing. While he didn't doubt that deep down, Marian wanted him as much as he wanted her, he didn't want an iota of her lovemaking to be driven by a sense of duty. But as much as Harold despised being relented to, he was beyond resisting even these paltry scraps of romance.

"I'll be waiting," he promised, and took a seat on the music room's only wingback chair to do just that.

XXX

When Harold came to, the faint, rosy light of a beautiful autumn dawn was streaming through the muslin curtains.

Without even realizing it, he'd drifted to sleep on his chair. Although his bowtie and a few of the buttons on his dress shirt had already been undone by Marian during their canoodling the night before, his shoes were still on, and no blanket was draped over him. Harold's miffed confusion turned into full-blown irritation once he realized he'd been lying undisturbed all night – apparently, his wife hadn't even thought to so much as peek in on him before retiring for the evening!

After stretching out his cramped muscles and massaging the crick in his neck, the music professor rose to his feet and tiptoed up the stairs. As he didn't particularly care to encounter the librarian this morning after her craven evasion – he would have much rather gotten a firm and straightforward _no_ to his advances – his plan was to change into a fresh suit, splash some cold water on his face, and head right to the emporium. His office was well-stocked with razors, shaving cream, pomade and combs, so he could complete his morning ablutions more thoroughly there.

But when Harold crept into the bedroom, he was arrested by the sight of Marian sound asleep on top of their neatly-made bed. She'd removed her shoes and stockings, but otherwise, she was still fully clothed in the ensemble she'd been wearing the day before. Harold paused and frowned. This wasn't like the librarian, at all – no matter how exhausted she was at the end of the day, she never neglected her nightly toilette. Surveying the room for additional clues, he spotted her gingham dressing gown – and _nothing_ else – draped over her vanity stool. Harold's heart constricted at the sight – clearly, she'd been planning to come downstairs, after all. The last of his anger ebbed away, to be replaced by deep concern; it appeared that in the midst of getting undressed, his normally robust wife had simply collapsed.

Removing his shoes, belt and dress shirt, Harold slipped into bed next to Marian. She didn't even fidget at the disturbance, which further alarmed him. How exhausted could she possibly still be, after conking out so early the night before? Torn between the possibilities of waking her with gentle kisses or letting her get some much-needed sleep, Harold reluctantly decided the latter course of action would be best. But as he shifted to climb out of bed, the librarian stirred and opened her eyes. When her unfocused gaze finally settled on him, she gave him a bewildered smile. "Hello, Harold."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Good morning, my dear little librarian."

"Morning?" she asked groggily. "Don't you mean evening, or night?" Glancing at the clock on her bedside table, Marian immediately popped up, aghast. "Oh dear, I was supposed to come down to the music room _hours_ ago!"

Fortunately, Harold's reflexes were as lightning-quick as ever, and he swiftly moved back so as not to be beaned in the face by his wife's sudden shift in position. He even found it within himself to regard her with a tender smile as he observed, "You fell asleep."

"I'm so sorry," she apologized profusely. "After tucking the girls into bed, I came in here to change – but then I was suddenly overwhelmed by vertigo and had to lie down." She gazed imploringly at him. "I only meant to wait until the dizzy spell had passed, but – "

His smile curled into a smirk. "But you fell asleep."

Marian blushed and bowed her head.

Harold might have been inclined to tease his wife about her lapse, as the frustration of yet another missed opportunity lingered, but he was too concerned by this turn of events to go that route. He needed answers, and he wouldn't get them if he nettled her. "Well, there was no harm done," he magnanimously assured her. "As it turns out, I fell fast asleep, myself."

"Oh, Harold!" she gasped, appalled. "You spent all night in that chair? Your back must be twinging something fierce!"

The librarian reached over to soothe it, but he caught her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. "Never mind about my back," he said, regarding her with a level stare. "I'm much more interested in discussing the overwhelming vertigo that made _you_ pass out."

Marian's eyes didn't quite meet his. "It's not as if I was expecting it – I was taken completely by surprise. That was the first time it's ever happened."

"Ever?" he asked skeptically, stroking her palm with his thumb.

She shrugged. "Well, in several years."

Harold said nothing else, but continued to gaze at her with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, stop looking at me that way," she said crossly, snapping her head up to face him at last. "I feel perfectly fine this morning. It's as if last night had never even happened!"

He remained silent, his expression unmoving.

Marian sighed. "Oh, all right! If it happens again, I'll call Dr. Pyne."

Harold grinned and planted a hearty kiss on her lips. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

The corners of the librarian's mouth twitched upward, and she swatted his arm with her free hand. "You are such a fusspot!"

The music professor burst into laughter. "_Me_, a fusspot?" He caught her flailing hand and nibbled on her wrist. "And what's this slang from our reining Grammarian, who rules all the utterances of the Hill household with an iron dictionary?"

Harold only meant to have a little flirtatious fun with his wife, as he felt like a brute for goading her into making love when she wasn't feeling well the night before – and despite her rosy complexion and protestations to the contrary, he wasn't entirely convinced she wasn't ill – but Marian had other ideas. Reaching out and seizing him by the straps of his undershirt, she pulled him to her and gave him a kiss that was deep and full of promise.

Still, after having endured such an inauspicious atmosphere for lovemaking the day before, Harold refused to get too carried away just yet, even as Marian reached down to undo the front of his trousers. "Your alarm is due to go off any minute, darling," he warned – though in a panting voice as his fingers eagerly unfastened the buttons on her now thoroughly wrinkled blouse in return.

With an exasperated sigh, the librarian reached over and smacked the switch. "Any further objections, _Mister_ Hill?" she asked with a gleam in her eye, before pulling the music professor back to her and covering his mouth with hers.

But while Harold did not protest any further and wholeheartedly returned his wife's heated kisses, he was right to be circumspect. Marian's warm hand was just sliding beneath the waistband of his drawers when two sets of footsteps thundered down the hall, shattering the early-morning tranquility.

"No fair, Penny! You used the washroom first yesterday morning!"

"That's because _you_ used it first two days in a row before that!"

There were sounds of a scuffle, a door slammed, and a vigorous pounding of fists on wood ensued. And then, as if signaling the end of round one for this unruly boxing match, the alarm clock on Marian's bedside table let out its shrill, ear-piercing ring, making the music professor and librarian both jump something fierce. Marian had been too hasty and missed the switch – but then again, that clock had always been a cantankerous device, even when one was more precise!

Both husband and wife knew there was no point in trying to salvage yet another failed tryst. With a sigh, they parted and got up to face the day. As Harold whacked the alarm into silence and headed to the armoire to don a fresh suit, Marian raced to the washroom to iron out their daughters' latest squabble.


	3. In All of My Dreams

Perhaps Harold ought to have tried to pick up right where they'd left off after the girls finally departed for school that morning. But he hadn't bothered to make even the feeblest attempt at flirtation, let alone lovemaking, as he knew Marian didn't have the extra time to spare – she needed to finish washing the breakfast dishes right away because she was scheduled to open the library that morning. Hiding his sense of pique – he was getting mighty tired of playing second fiddle to dirty dishes – the music professor simply kissed his wife on the cheek and headed off to the emporium. Normally, he would have whispered a heated promise in her ear as he bade her farewell, but for once he refrained, as he knew better than to make promises neither of them could keep. With the run of bad luck they'd been having lately, Harold had a hunch he would probably find out that the librarian had started her courses when he got home tonight!

But it seemed that fortune, fate, or whatever deity oversaw the affairs of men had finally taken pity on him. That night, Marian once again came to bed wearing only her gingham dressing gown. It was quite the pleasant surprise, as Harold hadn't even made the slightest attempt at seduction all evening. Yet as pleasant as it was, their lovemaking was nowhere near as passionate as that almost-Paris Saturday night. Although the librarian had not only initiated this tryst but also embraced him as warmly as she ever did, he could tell by the languid pace of her writhing that she was exhausted – rather than overwhelming desire, it was mostly likely sheer determination to make it up to him for all the botched opportunities of the past few days that spurred her onward.

This wasn't the first time since they'd returned from Paris that Marian had come to him sapped of energy, having spent the majority of it on the house and the library and the children, leaving next to nothing for him. Although Harold was not happy about being last in line once again, he not only gobbled down these crumbs, he made love to his wife as gently and sweetly as he knew how in return – and quietly, lest they wake the girls. Even though it wasn't the most exciting of embraces, it was still very nice. It was always nice, being with Marian. And that was precisely the problem. Harold was getting awfully tired of _nice_.

As soon as he'd entered her, Marian had buried her head in the crook of his shoulder. But when he brought her to climax – another pleasant surprise, given the leisurely tempo of their lovemaking – her head fell back into the pillow and their eyes met, and he was startled to see tears streaming down her face.

"Marian," he gasped in alarm, coming to a halt. Had he hurt her, somehow?

She tightened her arms around him and buried her head in the crook of his shoulder again. "It's nothing," she sobbed. "I just – love you. I love you so much. Please, don't stop… " And then she was writhing fiercely against him, giving him everything she had.

At that, Harold was a goner; seizing his wife by the hips, he drove into her hard and fast. Long past the point of forbearance, Marian let out one long moan after another as she clung to him. They were low moans, and mostly muffled, but after so many nights of sputtering sighs and stifled screams, they were as glorious as a seventy-piece band to him. For one brief, wonderful moment, it was almost-Paris again… and then, just as Marian was on the cusp of the most promising paroxysm of pleasure he'd coaxed from her in months, he came. Even as felt himself give out, Harold kept thrusting, hoping it would be enough to put her over the edge, too. But he knew it wasn't a battle he was going to win – Marian's moans diminished into panting exhalations as he grew soft inside her. Heaving a sigh himself, Harold finally gave up and pulled out of his wife.

But if the librarian was disappointed by her husband's lackluster finish, she didn't show it. As Harold flopped onto his back, she snuggled up against his side. Cupping her damp cheek, he was relieved to discover that she'd stopped weeping.

"Is everything all right, Marian?" Harold whispered, still concerned. Tonight wasn't the first time she'd ever cried from the sheer intensity of emotion their lovemaking aroused in her, but it had been several years since the last occasion. She hadn't sobbed at all in Paris – it was something she had done back all the way back when they were newly married.

The librarian only hesitated for a split second. "I'm fine, Harold. Just – tired."

_That's your answer for everything, these days_, he thought peevishly. Aloud, he gave a noncommittal, "Hmm."

But the librarian knew the music professor just as well as he knew her. Rolling over to face him, she gave him a tender kiss on the lips and said reassuringly, "A good night's sleep always works wonders for me." Her smile turned impish. "And I _always_ sleep better after we make love."

Harold felt a rush of fierce love for his wife, as well as frustration. Even as he reveled in the wonderful sense of closeness he always experienced whenever they were physically intimate, he still somehow felt they were miles apart, as if he'd almost but not quite gotten to the core of what was nagging at Marian.

Because as much as they were both trying to pretend everything was fine, there was something she wasn't telling him. Maybe something she wasn't even telling herself. And if that turned out to be the case, he certainly wasn't going to be able to get to the bottom of it tonight – especially now that his "Iowa stubborn" wife's breathing had grown steady and deep.

But perhaps Harold was overthinking this. Marian was always a little off balance in the week before her courses were due to start. Though come to think of it, she'd been a little off balance for the past several months – and the last time she'd had her courses was right before they'd left for Paris. That was three months ago. As the music professor realized just how much time had passed, he almost bolted upright in his surprise. The librarian's cycle had always been a bit tricky to predict, but it was never _that_ irregular.

Perhaps Marian was going through the change of life. She was nearly forty, after all. It would certainly explain her constant irritability and exhaustion, as well as her more adamant than usual disinclination to discuss her health. While it was a natural phase that all women went through, his wife still retained a Victorian hesitancy to allude to menstruation outside the vaguest of details. She'd never frankly discuss the dwindling of her ability to conceive a child.

As Harold contemplated this decline, he was struck by an intense pang of sadness. While he loved his daughters dearly and couldn't have asked for more, there was a small part of him that had always _wished_… and now the possibility of expanding their family even further was gone forever. And if he felt this much sorrow and sense of loss being on the periphery of things, he could only imagine how his wife felt actually going through this change. Lovemaking was no longer an untroubled source of delight and intimacy for her, but a bittersweet reminder of what they could no longer look forward to. No wonder his wife had burst into tears – and no wonder her moods had been so mercurial, lately!

Tightening his arms around the woman he'd pledged to love in sickness and in health, Harold closed his eyes and concentrated on drifting off to sleep, himself. They'd get over this little bump in the road – it was just a matter of patience and forbearance. No matter how irritable or under the weather the librarian was as she struggled to adjust to the aging of her body, he was resolved to grin and bear it. It was the least a devoted husband could do.

XXX

But his mind had other ideas. When Harold finally managed to fall asleep, he began to dream. At first, he wasn't aware he was dreaming, as the setting was so mundane – he was sitting at his desk in the emporium, doing paperwork. When there was a knock at his office door, he said, "Come in!" without preamble, as more often than not, it was Tommy seeking his advice or expertise.

But it wasn't his second-in-command who entered the room. It was Lisette Latimer. And she didn't just walk into the office, she sashayed in with a smooth, confident gait he'd never seen her adopt before. Such easy, graceful perambulation on its own would have unsettled the music professor, but it paled into insignificance next to the fact that the widow wasn't wearing one of her usual decorous and drab getups that were at least five years out of date. Instead, she sported a stunning, stylish and low-cut dress that was the most scandalous shade of crimson he'd seen since that sweltering July evening he'd spent trading rumors with Marian on her front porch over a decade ago.

"I've come to discuss Billy's progress in the band," Mrs. Latimer said in a level voice, as if strolling about in daring ensembles far more suited for late-night necking in French cabarets was a matter of course.

But even when he'd been a philandering conman, Harold made it a point of pride to never let on to a woman just how much she'd knocked him off balance, no matter how alluring she was. "What specifically about Billy's progress did you want to discuss?" he asked nonchalantly, looking at her face alone as he stood up from his chair. It felt safer, being on his feet; Mrs. Latimer was a short woman, and at his full height he towered over her.

But the crafty widow soon evened the score – as she tilted her head to regard him with a flirtatious pout, her chestnut waves escaped her chignon and cascaded artfully down her back. The music professor had to repress a shudder of delight – it had been several months since he'd seen such long, brilliant hair, and he missed the eroticism of a woman's tresses tumbling loosely around her.

Fortunately, Mrs. Latimer didn't seem to notice his disquiet. "Billy's been in the band for over three years now," she said with a toss of her head that made her curls bounce enticingly, "and he practices his trumpet for hours and hours at home. It's his dream to be a trumpet player when he grows up, but he still hasn't made first chair, even though he has the most seniority of all the other boys in the section!"

Harold swallowed. "Yes, of course," he stammered, desperate to fill the silence long enough to regain his bearings. Although he was a sweet and likeable lad, Billy Latimer had always been a Johnny One Note type of kid. Nevertheless, it was the music professor's job to cultivate a love or at least an appreciation of music in all his students, as it would enrich their lives regardless of the professions they ultimately pursued. So he encouraged boys like Billy to play with all the gusto they had. As for the boys who demonstrated truly exceptional talent – there were always one or two each generation – he recommended them for the Fred and Lucy Gallup Scholarship to study music at the University of Iowa when they turned eighteen. Naturally, this award was highly sought after by the musically inclined as a pinnacle of achievement.

But Billy would never qualify for such an accolade, not by a long shot. While Harold could easily find something to praise in nearly every boy's performance and deliver a mostly honest yet beautifully phrased compliment whenever parents fished for praise, he could not outright deny that the tone-deaf Billy Latimer would never have a promising music career ahead of him. This would have been a difficult conversation to have even if Mrs. Latimer had approached him tightly coifed and bound in the most proper and dowdy of ensembles. When her hair was down and she was dressed in a décolletage-revealing evening gown _and_ she was looking at him with those soft, pleading brown eyes of hers, it was impossible.

"Your son doesn't have the talent to advance any further than where he already is," the music professor said frankly, almost brusquely as he averted his eyes. He supposed he could have sugarcoated this harsh truth by divulging that Billy's deficiencies were somewhat balanced by him being one of the most passionate and hardworking students he'd ever taught, but he was too irritated by the widow's flagrant attempts to disarm him with her feminine wiles – and even more irked by the fact that so far, she was succeeding!

But Harold couldn't look away for long, and his heart constricted as Mrs. Latimer's expression turned both stunned and hurt, as if he'd slapped her. "But – you've always said that _everyone_ has music inside them, and it's just a matter of finding it!"

"I can teach a kid the rudimentary basics, but I can't give him talent he wasn't born with," Harold countered. "And the plain truth of the matter is that your son will always struggle to stay on pitch, no matter how hard he practices."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh," she said, looking thoroughly crestfallen.

Harold sighed. He never liked crushing a kid's dreams, even when it was necessary. "Billy _has_ found his music," he allowed, sympathy seeping into his voice. "His diligence and persistence have been a model for the rest of the band. But that's still not going to be enough to win him a Gallup Scholarship."

The music professor quickly regretted softening like that – no sooner than he had finished speaking, Mrs. Latimer's beautiful brown eyes flared with renewed joy, and she grasped his hands with hers. "He'd win that scholarship if you recommended him for it," she astutely observed. "And if he studies very hard, he could still become a music professor – just like his hero!"

Harold's heart turned over as he felt that heady and treacherous spark of desire flare up in the pit of his stomach; the pretty widow was beaming at him as if he were the sun and the moon and the stars. As uneasy as her close proximity was making him and as desperate as he was to say something, _anything_ to get her to withdraw and leave his office before he did something he'd sorely regret, he wasn't about to sacrifice his professional principles to achieve this end. "That wouldn't be fair to the others," he maintained. "There are boys in the band who have the talent to go far."

But even as the music professor refused to yield, he knew he'd lost the argument as soon as he'd relinquished his initial aloof and inexorable façade. Not only was Mrs. Latimer going to brook no further refusals, she was now fully aware of the power she possessed to affect him. Still gazing dreamily into his eyes, the widow took a small but dangerous step closer. "What can I do to convince you to recommend my son for that scholarship, Professor Hill?" she asked in a sultry, sing-song voice.

Harold should have held his ground, but the widow's intoxicating presence overwhelmed him so completely that he took a step backward before he could warn himself not to give her so much as an inch. Despite this involuntary but costly capitulation, he struggled to persevere. "You can't," he managed to choke out.

With a gleam in her eye that indicated she knew otherwise, Mrs. Latimer took another step toward him, unfastening the front of her gown to reveal the sheer, lacy little camisole she was wearing beneath it. Because she wasn't wearing a girdle, Harold could easily see that her nipples were both rosy and taut – a sight that just begged him to go over and take her breasts in his mouth. Still, he refrained.

"I saw the way you looked at me, the day of the parade," she panted, as if she was already halfway to climax just _thinking_ about the way their eyes had locked for one brief but heated moment. Harold gritted his teeth to keep his expression impassive as she continued, saying every single word he'd been longing to hear the moment she walked into his office, "I've been waiting for you to look at me _that_ way ever since I first came to this town. Watching you lead the band drove me into a frenzy – all I could think about was how it would feel if you touched me absolutely everywhere with those capable hands of yours. Watching you dance at every ball and assembly was even worse – I knew from the way you moved that you'd make love to a woman as passionately as you danced with her. And I knew from _that_ look in your eyes that you'd hold her close afterward… "

"Well, that's quite a fancy for a woman married to another man," Harold said, his mouth and throat dry. He meant for his tone to be incredulous and dismissive, but it came out so feebly that it sounded as if he were awed and intrigued, instead.

With an arch grin, Mrs. Latimer let her dress flutter to the floor and posed artfully before him in her camisole and drawers – which he couldn't help noticing were spilt-seam. As he stared hungrily at her, she reached out and gave him a coquettish little push, which was just firm enough to send him toppling backwards into his desk chair. Normally, Harold would have jumped right up, but he suddenly realized that he'd somehow been stripped down to his union suit. He'd gotten hard the moment the widow had started to remove her clothes, but now he could no longer hide it. Still, no matter what his baser inclinations were urging him to do, he had to put a stop to this seduction immediately.

However, when Mrs. Latimer knelt before him and gazed deep into his eyes with that hungry look of hers, all rational thought fled; the music professor remained frozen where he sat as she lowered her head into his lap and freed him from the constraints of his drawers with nimble fingers. "Yesterday afternoon, I came to your office – I just couldn't _take_ trying to stay away from you anymore," she said breathlessly. "And I knew from the way you looked at me after the concert that you felt exactly the same." Her lips pursed into a dangerously fetching moue. "But you were gone for lunch. So I put my lips on your trumpet, to taste you… "

Without further preamble, she took him in her mouth. Utterly undone, Harold gripped the arms of his chair and groaned, his head lolling back. The widow was _very_ practiced at performing this act on a man. He wondered if she'd honed her craft on Mr. Latimer, or someone else – or several someone elses, as she clearly had no compunction about seducing married men.

As the word _married_ floated across his addled brain, Harold's rational mind suddenly intervened, cutting through the treacherous haze of desire clouding his senses. "Marian," he gasped. What on earth was he doing, allowing this situation to continue?

Mrs. Latimer immediately withdrew and gazed up at him with a hugely offended expression, as if _he_ were the one who'd committed a grave breach of etiquette by not being sufficiently appreciative of her attentions. "And when was the last time _Marian_ did something even half as daring as this?" she asked, her beautiful doe eyes looking shrewdly into his soul. "Paris?"

Harold's mouth fell open, and he could only gape at her. How in heaven's name did she know?

When the widow smiled sympathetically at him, the last, lingering inclination he had to fight off her bold advances shattered. "You're not the first married man who's ached for this from someone willing," she explained. "And I'm not the first woman who wanted more than her husband was willing to give." She scowled. "I was a widow long before my husband died."

Harold grinned as that long-dormant and nearly-forgotten anticipation of experiencing thrilling novelty with a beautiful stranger surged through him. All the grandiose and insincere lines he used to use on his conquests came easily to the tip of his tongue, but this gal had given him something far better: a heated fancy that could be used as a flirtatious volley.

"Well," the music professor purred conspiratorially, "you said you sneaked into my office yesterday to put your mouth on my trumpet?"

Mrs. Latimer gave him the most charming smile that still managed to be sweet even as it thoroughly lacked so much as the smallest hint of bashfulness.

"Then it's only fair that_ I_ get to taste you," Harold asserted. In one grand, sweeping motion, he scooped the alluring widow into his arms and got to his feet. Propping her on his desk, he buried his head in her lap and did just that, until her moans turned into one long, unbroken scream of ecstasy as she shuddered and came in his arms.

But Lisette Latimer still wasn't sated. "Tell me you want me," she gasped, parting her thighs even wider and kneading her fingers into his hair.

"I've wanted you since that day of the concert," Harold confessed in a rush, unable to hold back any longer.

Yanking him to his feet, the widow pushed him back into his chair. This time, she straddled his lap. But she didn't take him in immediately – instead, she writhed tantalizingly against him. Harold groaned at the feel of her warm thighs against his erection; he was so hard and she was so wet that the tip of him slipped inside her. But before he could thrust forward, she bobbed slightly upward, moving just barely but excruciatingly out of his reach, and regarded him a smoldering grin.

"_Show_ me how much you want me," she whispered huskily. Her provocative, heavy-lidded gaze promised the most heated, scandalous and depraved lovemaking he could possibly imagine – but only if he was reckless enough to cross this final threshold between them.

Lisette Latimer really knew how to intensify a man's lust to a fever pitch right up until the very last second! Even as the apprehension that someone might walk in on them fleetingly floated across his addled brain, Harold was long past the point of resisting. All coherent thought lost in the upswell of desire he could no longer deny, the music professor crushed his mouth against the widow's as he grasped her by the hips and, with a single thrust, buried himself inside her as deeply as he could manage. As she moaned into his mouth and sagged against him, enveloping him even more completely, her hands clamped down on his arms in a vice grip, her nails harsh as talons digging into his flesh.

This rough handling only spurred Harold onward. Tightening his hold on Mrs. Latimer, he continued to kiss the breath out of her as his hands found her backside and the two of them began to move frantically back and forth…

XXX

Harold jolted awake, panicked. In one single moment of weakness, he'd ruined his marriage for good – there was no way he was going to be able to hide from Marian that he'd been with another woman. She'd never forgive him for this lapse, and why should she? After over a decade of loving devotion, how could he have done this to his dear little librarian? And just what had been worth such a ghastly betrayal? A trivial romp in the hay with a woman who would cease to be alluring or even interesting the moment he climaxed –

In the midst of his self-recriminations, Harold's senses finally caught up to him, and he suddenly realized that it had only been a dream. In his sheer relief, his gasps turned into wheezy laughter as he lay in his tangled bedclothes.

But the exhilaration of his not actually having committed adultery soon blossomed into dismay. While a man couldn't control what direction his mind decided to wander after he fell asleep, the fact that there was cause for him to have had such a dream in the first place was deeply alarming. After all, hadn't he fallen in love with Marian over the course of several dreams, so many years ago? So even if that heated tryst had all been in his mind, it still somehow felt wrong of him to have had such an explicit dream about another woman. And what's more, that dream had left the music professor maddeningly aroused, his body having no such qualms about the stimuli that provoked its treacherous appetites.

As Harold nervously glanced at Marian, he was both comforted and frustrated to see that she was still sleeping soundly, despite the all the disturbance his thrashing about must have caused. Unusually for her – at least, since they'd come home from Paris – she had drifted off without so much as throwing on her gingham dressing gown. So she was as naked as he was; the porcelain skin of her shoulders and breasts and thighs gleamed tantalizingly in the semidarkness, which made him even harder. Now thoroughly frustrated, and wanting nothing more than to forget about the widow – that siren, that _succubus_ who had so rudely invaded his dreams – Harold seriously contemplated seducing his wife out of her slumber. But he immediately dismissed the idea as too repulsive; he couldn't use the woman he loved as an outlet for his profane lust.

But it wasn't simply a high-flying sense of nobility that made him refrain. As the music professor considered waking up his wife anyway – in his sheer desperation, he needed to do _something_ to calm his nerves – that spiteful, traitorous voice whispered there was no point in trying. Even if Harold did make the attempt, he couldn't expect to get a tryst that was anywhere near as exciting as the one he'd just dreamed about. Although Marian remained the same warm, generous and passionate lover she'd been since their wedding night, she hadn't had the energy or the gumption to be so bold and wild with him since Paris. Tonight was no exception – she'd been thoroughly exhausted, and had already given him everything she had to give. He couldn't ask her for anything more – at least, not right now.

With a sigh, Harold disentangled himself from the sheets and withdrew to the music room. For the rest of the night, he paced back and forth, trying to get a hold of himself; trying not to think about his dream _or_ all the things that Marian had said and done with her mouth in Paris, things she had never dared to say or do in River City. Now that they were home again, they had fallen right back into their old roles in the bedroom – he led, and she followed. But after getting a taste of what things could be like if his Victorian wife let go of her inhibitions, he was tired of leading all the time, even if the ardor of her responses to his caresses was always gratifying.

But even with everything Marian still managed to give him despite her propensity for primness, it still wasn't enough. All Lisette Latimer had done was _look_ at him, and he'd been reduced to a hot mess. It was infuriating, especially since Harold hadn't thought of the widow once since that fateful afternoon. Over the past few days, the lovely librarian had occupied his mind and heart as wholly as she ever did, and he'd been desperate to make love to her whenever and wherever he could. After several false starts, they'd finally managed to be together and, while the music professor had to admit their tryst hadn't been everything he'd been waiting for, there was a calm but deep satisfaction in it that no dream-chimera could ever match.

Because if there was one thing that Harold had learned about love over the past twelve years, it was not just about romance, and it certainly wasn't about feeling giddy with desire all the time. It was also about supporting each other through the tough times, sharing in both the joys and the sorrows of going through life side by side as they built a home and a history together. It was not merely reveling in the fickle and capricious butterflies as they came and went, but accepting both the delight and discomfort that complete intimacy entailed. As he and Marian bared their souls to each other, the bond between them had only ever deepened; their long and honest conversations affirming that despite their differing personalities, they saw eye-to-eye about what was truly important. In the course of loving each other, they had made two beautiful children together. Her brother was like a son to him, and her plain-spoken, down-to-earth, tough-as-nails mother was like a second mother. Love was just as much a choice as it was a feeling, and it was never worth throwing away one's entire family – one's entire _life_ – in a pique of ennui just because something new and shiny came along when things weren't running as smoothly as one would have liked.

Not that anything else had come along, really. Harold was well aware of the ephemeral and deceptive nature of dreams. The chimera-widow who'd seduced him wasn't truly Lisette Latimer, but merely a cipher for his frustrations; a shadow and a fancy, nothing more. Her appearance and behavior in his dream was a reflection of his deepest desires and wishes, rather than her true personality. But why, then, hadn't Harold dreamed of Marian seducing him in his office? The answer to this question was not so comfortable to own up to. While the music professor was secure in the knowledge that he hadn't fallen in love with Mrs. Latimer, her hungry glance flattered him in a way that his wife's sweet beam did not. Marian may have been sixteen years younger than he was, but the widow was even younger than that, barely in her mid-thirties (he estimated her to be around the same age as Jane Peabody, a woman for whom he'd only ever possessed an avuncular fondness and, despite her earlier predilection for older men, he'd sensed the assistant librarian had always felt exactly the same about him). Whereas Harold was solidly in his mid-fifties. Hardly an old and decrepit specimen to be put out to pasture, but undeniably, he was no longer in his prime. Every year, his dashing good looks faded a little more; though River City's teenaged girls still clamored for spots as baton girls, they had stopped making cow's eyes at Professor Hill. While he had graciously accepted this normal and natural turn of events, he couldn't help being tremendously flattered that there was at least one young woman out there who still mooned over him.

Harold chuckled grimly. Vanity of vanities, indeed! It was going to be his downfall, if he didn't take care. Because for all he knew, the shy and retiring Lisette Latimer may very well have been open to an affair if the opportunity presented itself, and he wasn't about to get himself into a situation that allowed him to find out whether this was a possibility. It was his duty to stay as far away from the widow as possible until this dangerous attraction faded. Not only that, he needed to distance himself a bit more from her son, as well. Harold had been making too much of a pet of Billy Latimer; not because of his mother, but because the poor, fatherless lad was so likeable, hardworking and eager to please. But as it was his policy not to display overt favoritism toward any boy (even Winthrop had not been allowed extra leeway when he was in the band), he needed to do a much better job of adhering to it!

And Harold could never let on to his wife how much another woman's glance had affected him. While it felt like a betrayal to conceal something so important from the woman he loved, there was such a thing as being _too_ honest; this kind of confession would damage their trust and intimacy far more than enhance it, and they were already dealing with enough marital unrest at present. While Marian most likely wouldn't divorce him if she ever found out about this silly fancy of his – unless, of course, he did the unthinkable and acted on it – she might be angry enough to insist on a clandestine separation, if only to preserve their family's reputation. But the results would be equally devastating, not just for the two of them but also their daughters, who would be extremely hurt by their father's selfishness.

So as hard as it was for him to keep secrets from the librarian, Harold was resolved not to let this particular cat out of the bag. Besides, when this inconvenient and annoying attraction did eventually fade, there would be nothing to tell, so he could laugh at his own foolishness and then forget about it forever as he made wild, passionate and carefree love to Marian all night long.


	4. About a Thousand Kisses Shy

_A/N – This chapter is heavily entwined with the events of Opening Pandora's Box and Setting a Good Example in Remembering Paris; you may wish to read/reread those chapters for a refresher._

XXX

While Harold might have been a wiser, better man than he was twelve years ago, he had also gotten a lot worse at hiding things from the woman he loved. The moment he stepped into the kitchen the next morning and Marian looked up from her everlasting dishes to greet him, her welcoming smile quickly dissolved into an expression of tender concern.

"Is everything all right, darling?"

Harold almost crumbled – almost, but not quite. "I didn't sleep well," he admitted. "Tossed and turned, then went down to the music room."

While it wasn't a lie, it certainly wasn't the whole truth, either. Right after he finished speaking, the music professor ran his hand wearily over his forehead so it wouldn't seem too suspicious that he didn't quite meet his wife's affectionate but inquisitive gaze.

Marian came over and wrapped her arms around him. "I wondered where you disappeared to last night," she said wistfully. "I didn't sleep very well, either – I missed you."

A lump came into Harold's throat at that – of all the mornings for his wife to be so uncommonly effusive, why did she have to pick this one? If she had known what was truly weighing on his mind, she would have recoiled from him in disgust. Although he wasn't a religious man, he couldn't help wondering if maybe this was Providence's sly and subtle way of punishing him for his wayward heart – especially as what his wife said next made him feel even worse.

"I considered coming downstairs to surprise you, and at one point I thought I had gotten up to do just that," she laughed. "But I was so fogged with sleep that I merely dreamed I did!"

The music professor swallowed. "Was it a good dream?"

The wistful note crept back into the librarian's voice, and her arms tightened around him. "I dreamed I was coming downstairs, but somehow, I never quite managed to reach the music room." She sighed. "This dream happened over and over again, until my alarm finally went off this morning."

If Marian hadn't let go of him right then to return to her dishes, Harold really would have crumbled – this morning was shaping up to be one of the rare occasions he felt dangerously close to losing his composure. Although his wife had seen him at his most vulnerable and unvarnished more than a few occasions over the course of their marriage, he could count on one hand the times he had actually broken down in front of her: when he feared for Winthrop's fate in the war, when his boys returned from the front, and when he spilled the beans about how he'd gotten the scar on his side. If he crumbled now, the librarian would know something was truly, deeply amiss, and there was no telling what might come out of his mouth!

But what really frustrated Harold was before he had that disconcerting dream, he had been planning to talk to Marian – really talk to her. It would have been a great morning for a long conversation, too, as she was home from the library and he didn't have rehearsal. But it was too dangerous to broach such dicey subjects now, because not only were his nerves raw from lack of sleep, he had something to hide and couldn't risk his wife probing too deeply into his soul as he attempted to get to the bottom of what was nagging at her. So as soon as their bright-eyed daughters gobbled down their breakfast – like him, Marian only picked at her food – Harold followed them out the door.

If Marian was miffed that her husband didn't linger a little while with her after the girls left for school, she didn't show it – though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes when he kissed her goodbye. And to Harold's dismay, he found that he also had a ridiculously difficult time maintaining some semblance of his usual grin as he greeted his friends and neighbors on the way to the emporium. Apparently, he couldn't fake unruffled cheer around _anyone_, these days!

But one of the good things about the River City-ziens was that, despite their propensity for gossip and speculation, none of the acquaintances he met would have been so bold as to inquire directly if something was the matter. Even Marcellus would not have pried into his affairs, though he would have known right away something was up. Fortunately, Harold did not meet his closest comrade on the way to work. But he couldn't avoid Tommy Djilas, who would also suspect that all wasn't well – and was still young enough that he might actually ask a few well-meaning but blunt questions!

However, while Tommy did raise an eyebrow at the music professor as soon as he walked through the doors, all he expressed was a few polite pleasantries – even when Harold suddenly and uncharacteristically displayed a keen interest in diving into all the paperwork he always tried to put off until the last possible moment. Bookkeeping was by far his least favorite chore of managing a business; he much preferred to be on the front lines interacting with the customers. Today, he felt it too dangerous to his tenuous sense of equanimity to deal with the public.

But to the music professor's chagrin, he found there happened to be very little in the way of paperwork to take care of this morning, as Tommy had completed it the afternoon before. And there was no rehearsal to prepare for, either, so Harold had no good excuse to linger in his office for the entire day. Not that he would have wanted to, anyway – it was too unsettling to sit in his desk chair for long, because choice bits of what his fevered fancies had imagined him _doing_ in that chair kept flashing through his mind.

So it was barely ten o'clock when he finally rejoined Tommy at the shop counter. As it was a slow day with no customers on the horizon, the music professor's normal tack would have been to stand outside and drum up business by engaging in friendly conversation with passerby, but the idea of engaging in such a foolhardy venture made him break out in a cold sweat. So he pretended to be unduly interested in the state of his shop, shifting displays and wiping dust off the glass cases and positioning instruments _just so_, until the emporium was as pristine as a museum exhibit and he could do nothing more without looking utterly daft. But at least he had eaten up a little more time – it was now almost eleven, and Harold planned to take an early lunch at half-past the hour. If he played his cards right, he could stretch it out all the way until at least two o'clock.

And then, at eleven fifteen, who should come strolling down the street directly toward the emporium but the very person the music professor had been dreading the idea of encountering: Lisette Latimer. While the retiring widow didn't come into his shop daily, she was not an infrequent customer, as Billy was a bit clumsy with the materials needed to maintain his trumpet despite his best intentions, and often misplaced his slide grease and valve oil. Mrs. Latimer made a purchase roughly once every two weeks, and as it had been several days since Harold had last seen her in his shop, the unpleasant inkling that he was going to cross paths with her had been gnawing at the pit of his stomach all morning. Although he was greatly relieved to see that that the widow was walking her usual diffident – almost timid – stride, as well as wearing her usual modest and unremarkable attire, there was no way he could face her right now.

So Harold resorted to a ploy he hadn't used since he was a conman: the quick but decorous exit to avoid a person who could unmask him. "Tommy, there's something I need to take care of right away," he said in the brisk, authoritative tone that no one ever dared question. "I'll be in my office if you need me – but only if there's an emergency."

With that, he skedaddled down the corridor, leaving his dumbfounded second-in-command to handle the pending transaction.

XXX

Once Harold had closed his office door behind him (he was tempted to lock it for good measure, but refrained), he sank down into his desk chair… and then leaped up when he remembered that this was exactly where he was sitting when Mrs. Latimer came waltzing into the room during his dream. So he tried pacing back and forth for a few minutes, but that only succeeded in making him even more agitated. Brushing aside the scores, instrument parts and other bric-a-brac littering his sofa, the music professor lay down and took several deep, calming breaths as he stared up at the ceiling. He really needed to get a hold of himself – on the off-chance that the widow had an issue Tommy couldn't handle on his own, his demeanor must be perfectly composed and above reproach, should he be called back into the shop. As one minute after another uneventfully ticked by, Harold's racing heart gradually slowed back to its normal pace, and he began to feel terribly ridiculous and craven for allowing a silly dream-chimera to dictate his behavior. Indignantly getting to his feet, the music professor took his rightful place in the desk chair.

As if the Fates had been waiting for this precise moment, there was a knock at the door. Harold nearly jumped out of his skin at that, but staunchly refused to rise from his seat. This was _his_ office; no matter who came walking through his door, he refused to cower any longer.

"Who is it?" the music professor asked in a voice that was surprisingly level, given that his heart was frantically pounding again.

"It's Tommy," came a hesitant voice in return.

_Of course it's only Tommy_, his rational mind chided. "Come in," Harold said pleasantly.

The door swung open. "Sorry to disturb you, Professor," his second-in-command said sheepishly. "Billy Latimer's mouthpiece needs repairing – there's an eraser stub jammed in the stem of it."

Harold's eyes widened – this seemed like too clumsy a mishap even for Billy. "How on earth did _that_ happen?"

Tommy shrugged. "Mrs. Latimer said her nephew Sam did it. He's only five, and too curious for his own good. He was over for dinner last night, and Billy left his trumpet out where Sam could get it." He held out the mouthpiece. "I tried working it out myself, but it's lodged in there pretty tight. I couldn't even budge it, and I didn't want to risk doing any more damage. So I told Mrs. Latimer that if anyone could unclog a mouthpiece, it was you, but that you were busy right now, and she should come back tomorrow." He regarded the music professor with a nervous expression. "I hope that was all right?"

Harold gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed right now was the tedious and excruciating task of fiddling with a jammed mouthpiece! And not only that, Mrs. Latimer would be stopping by the shop _again_ tomorrow; so he wouldn't be able to dodge her a second time. But there was nothing for it – he could not in good conscience persuade a struggling widow to replace a mouthpiece when he could most likely restore the one her son already had.

"I'll see what I can do," the music professor said with a sigh. Taking the mouthpiece from Tommy's outstretched hand, he placed it gingerly on his desk. As he stared at it, he almost fancied he could hear Mrs. Latimer's silky voice whispering in his ear how good _his_ mouthpiece tasted, which sent a not-entirely-unpleasant shudder rippling through his body.

"Are you all right, Professor?" Tommy asked, giving him a worried look.

Harold decided right then and there that he was going to have to make love to Marian as soon as he could manage it. Forget about waiting until tonight – he was going to go home right now and scratch that itch. Making love to Marian had driven Mrs. Latimer right out of his head before, so he didn't see why it wouldn't work a second time. The librarian wasn't slated to work today and the girls were at school, so he could look forward to enjoying his wife's company as soon as he walked through their front door. As he contemplated a long and glorious afternoon of being completely alone with Marian, and all the delectable and decadent ways they could make love in whatever room they wanted while moaning as loudly as they pleased, another shiver ran through him – this time entirely pleasant. With any luck, by the time tomorrow morning rolled around, he'd be sated enough to face anything.

"You don't look so hot," Tommy sympathetically observed. "I can take care of the shop. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

"Thank you, Tommy," Harold said appreciatively, even as guilt prickled at his insides. He deserved no sympathy or kindness from anyone. "I think I'll do just that."

XXX

_Harold –_

_Mama had an emergency this morning – a pipe burst in her lavatory. It will take several hours to clean everything up, so I won't be home to provide you lunch. But there are leftovers from last night in the ice box that you and Penny and Elly can have. If all goes smoothly, I should be home to make dinner at the usual time._

– _M ._

Harold let out a bitter, barking laugh once he finished reading the note waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Of _course_ something like this had to happen to throw a wrench into his plans! Though he couldn't blame his wife for rushing to her mother's aid, the terseness of her note irritated him. Or perhaps it was the slight defensiveness he detected in her tone that rubbed him the wrong way – her choice of phrases like "provide you lunch" and "make dinner at the usual time" seemed to indicate she expected him to resent her inability to get him his meals on schedule. And while he was not at all surprised that the prim librarian failed to close with "love" or "fondly" or any other endearment lest their daughters find this missive first, she could have at least taken a few extra seconds to spell out her full name!

_Or maybe_, said his rational side, _she phrased things that way because she was justifiably distracted and in a hurry, and you're reading feelings into her words that she never meant to imply._ Still, Harold couldn't help reflecting that even if that was the case, her handwriting remained as careful and meticulous as it ever was.

With a sigh, he laid the note back down on the counter – and then jumped when the phone rang. But it wasn't Marian's voice that greeted him when he hastened into the parlor to answer the call – it was Amaryllis informing him that the librarian had made arrangements for Penny and Elly to come to her and Winthrop's house for lunch, and that she would be keeping them over there after school until things had been set to rights at Mama Paroo's.

Gritting his teeth – did his wife really think he was such an inept parent that he couldn't look after the girls for a single afternoon? – Harold nevertheless thanked her in a pleasant voice before hanging up the phone.

Left entirely to his own devices and not at all hungry, the music professor did the only thing he could do when he had nothing else to occupy himself – he retreated to the music room. For a brief moment, he contemplated going back to the emporium, or dropping by his mother-in-law's to see if he could be of any assistance, but he still felt too precariously off balance to be around others. To pass the time, he attempted to play _Für Elise_ on the piano, but after hitting a bunch of wrong notes, he had to get away from the darned instrument, lest he lash out at it and leave a mark that he'd have to explain to Marian later.

_Well, look at you_, cooed that dangerous voice. _"Darned" piano? Can't even muster up the gumption for a real swear, let alone a good, solid kick, lest the librarian squawk!_ Harold's hands clenched into fists as he paced back and forth. Although he wasn't about to give in to the petulant and disloyal mood that had been plaguing him ever since he'd had that dream, he couldn't deny that it rankled him how thoroughly he'd been tamed by Marian over the past decade. He had now reached the point where he was almost completely neutered; a hen-pecked husband tiptoeing on eggshells laid down by his irascible wife. He used to laugh at men like that, and now he _was_ one. It had taken him a long time, but he'd finally come to the conclusion he'd originally dreaded when he turned over a new leaf and started courting the librarian: marriage was a trap. Though he'd walked into it willingly and his cage had proved a great deal comfier and roomier than most other men's, he had finally reached the limits of it and was pressed against the gilded bars, yearning for his freedom.

_But what kind of freedom do you really want?_ asked a quieter, shrewder voice. _The unfettered freedom to seduce Lisette Latimer or any other woman who catches your fleeting fancy? Or the intoxicating freedom of Paris, where you could make love to Marian body, heart and soul, without holding anything back?_

Harold's shoulders slumped. While it was a surprisingly easy question for him to answer, he wasn't much comforted by the knowledge that he was still just as utterly, hopelessly and desperately in love with Marian Paroo Hill as ever, because he also knew that she could never be that uninhibited with him again. She'd locked away that part of herself as securely and permanently as she had packed up her elegant lingerie and daring flapper ensembles in her cedar chest of memories, and even the great Professor Hill hadn't been charming or persuasive enough to sell her on the idea of keeping Paris alive in River City.

_Oh, come off it!_ scoffed the petulant voice, on his side for once. _That's only because you haven't been trying nearly hard enough. Not as hard as you _would_ have tried, once upon a time…_

Harold stopped in his tracks – now _there_ was a course of action he could wholeheartedly get behind. Convincing Marian to let down her hair again would take some doing, but it wasn't insurmountable. Paris wasn't the only time in their marriage his wife had wowed him in the bedroom, though their second honeymoon had greatly ratcheted up his expectations as to the passionate boldness the librarian was capable of displaying on a regular basis. While he was likely to reap more frustration than pleasure from his efforts – at least in the beginning – it was time to stop brooding and start acting. He had to get Marian alone – tonight.

Feeling a reinvigorated sense of anticipation for the first time in several months as a delightful scheme took shape in his head, Harold settled himself in the music room's wingback chair and waited for his wife to return home.

XXX

Once again, Harold dozed a lot longer than he'd meant to, and by the time he awoke, the pleasant aroma of dinner was wafting throughout the house. But the nap had refreshed him greatly, and his resolve to make love to the librarian in something other than the missionary position under the blankets with lights out was further strengthened, now that he had more than enough energy to spare. After rubbing his eyes and stretching the kinks out of his muscles, the music professor got to his feet and walked toward the kitchen, pausing briefly to greet his daughters as they did their homework in the parlor.

As usual, Marian was bustling around looking thoroughly harried, though she lit up when she saw him. Although they were reasonably hidden from their daughters' view, Harold did not attempt to kiss his wife hello… because God forbid Penny and Elly should ever cotton on to the facts of life! Squelching his sense of pique with the reminder that tonight was going to be different, Harold regarded his wife with a grin and inquired about the state of her mother's lavatory. By the time Marian finished regaling him with all the struggles they'd gone through to set things to rights, dinner was ready.

As soon as the Hill family sat down to eat, all idle chit-chat ceased. Being growing girls, Penny and Elly had healthy appetites, to the point where Marian fretted she couldn't keep anything in the pantry or icebox for even a day before it disappeared down the girls' bottomless gullets. Having skipped both breakfast and lunch, Harold likewise inhaled his potato soup and a good three slices of bread on top of that. Still, he wasn't so ravenous that food was all he could see – he noticed his wife also tucked into her meal with unusual gusto, as well. As the music professor watched the librarian ladle a second and then third helping of soup into her bowl, he was struck by a sudden suspicion… which he immediately dismissed. Marian was not a blushing bride, so if what he was thinking was indeed the case, not only would she have been well aware of her condition by now, she would have told him. And she would have had a happy glow in the midst of her exhaustion and irritability.

When Marian excused herself from the table to wash the dishes, Harold sprang into action. Before Penny and Elly had even swallowed the final spoonfuls of their dinners, he was giving them a quarter and shooing them off to a movie. Knowing that he would most likely need to put Marian's mind at ease, he dutifully checked that his daughters had completed their homework; while Elly's "yes" was not quite so robust as Penny's, it was enthusiastic enough that he had no qualms about letting them go.

As soon as the girls had skedaddled, Harold stood up and headed into the kitchen, gleefully anticipating just how loud and long he could make his wife moan…

XXX

If Harold had been asked to bet on where he'd end up laying his head that night, the last spot he would have placed his money on was the couch in his office at the emporium. It had been such a promising evening – though it hadn't started out that way. While he had anticipated Marian's initial resistance to his sending the girls to the movies on a school night, her insistence on finishing those damn dishes nettled him to the point where he just gave up. If his wife wouldn't come to him without a fight even after he'd contrived for them to be alone, well, maybe he didn't want to fight for her anymore.

But then Marian came to him, after all. She may have done so as hesitantly and diffidently as a blushing bride, but even in his frustration, Harold couldn't deny the librarian was trying. It was silly of him to expect or even just hope that she would march into the parlor, tear the newspaper from his hands, and cover his mouth with a searing kiss to show him she meant business – especially when she had her own grievances to air. And when she told him what was nagging at her, guilt prickled at him enough that he had to at least attempt to make amends… which eventually led to them picking up right where they left off in the heated interlude they'd begun in the kitchen last Sunday morning. Now that they were in absolutely no danger of being interrupted by their darling daughters, Harold meant to make love to his wife right then and there.

But despite the progress they'd made, a countertop rendezvous was still too much to aim for. When Marian balked at the impropriety of what he intended to do, Harold decided it would only set back his cause if he persisted in trying to persuade her to see things his way this particular evening. However, even after he'd whisked the librarian upstairs to their bedroom, their tryst was once again in danger of being derailed when, just as he was removing the last of her undergarments, the phone rang.

At that, Harold almost gave up again. There was no way his wife was going to let the phone just ring and ring, especially with Penny and Elly being out of the house. He even sighed and stood up from their bed, intending to leave the room entirely. But as he was refastening his trousers, Marian surprised him again. Placing one slim but warm hand over his, she stilled the movements of his fingers. When his eyes met hers, he saw the look of quiet determination that always made his heart beat faster. As the music professor gazed resentfully but entreatingly at the librarian, hardly daring to believe but desperately hoping all the same, her free hand found the scar on his side.

"For the next few hours, I'm just your wife," she said in a low, sultry voice. "I _promised_ – "

Harold would have kissed the daylights out of her for that, but before he could so much as lean in, she had knelt before him and unfastened his trousers again. As he sank back onto the bed, she took him in her mouth, and not only did she make him groan long and loud, she moaned right along with him, as if she'd been just as frustrated and pent-up as he'd felt these past few months. After she brought him to climax, he tenderly reciprocated, rolling the librarian on her back and pleasuring her until he was once again ready to make love. Though he still didn't dare try anything too outlandish – namely, pressing Marian against the wall or entering her through the back door – he did not hesitate to make love to her in as many different positions as their bed could accommodate. And not only did his wife allow him to be as inventive as he pleased, she loudly and shamelessly egged him on – especially when Harold stood at the edge of the bed, grasped her hips and thrust into her. They had left all the lights blazing, so he saw every bit of Marian's writhing and arching her back, her golden curls splayed out on the sheets and her expression a veritable picture of unbridled ecstasy. And he knew that not only was she aware of her display, she was glorying in it – every now and then, she'd open her eyes and gaze up at him with a delightfully wicked gleam. She was wetter for him than she had been even on that almost-Paris Saturday night, and he was so hard for her that he actually had to hold back at times; and for once, it wasn't because he was afraid of overwhelming his wife's Victorian sensibilities! Marian's ecstasy was surprisingly continuous – despite how wound up she'd been about lovemaking lately, Harold had absolutely no difficulty in bringing her to climax again and again – and he was determined to last as long as his stamina allowed.

When they were both finally finished, they continued to hold each other close, lying in a languid tangle of arms and legs. As Harold stroked his wife's delectably disheveled tresses, her expression turned from sated to wistful.

"Do you miss my long hair?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, even as he started to kiss the tips of her curls.

Marian bit her lip. "I could grow it out again… "

Harold immediately shook his head. "I like your bobbed hair even better. You look delicious and stylish – a beautiful reminder of our time together in Paris. And," he added with a grin, "no blasted hairpins to worry about scattering on the carpets!"

"Yes, I do like not having to worry about that anymore," the librarian agreed with a laugh.

"Besides," Harold continued, growing serious, "it's not your long hair I missed." He stroked her lips with his thumb. "It's _this_, kissing me everywhere and crying out."

Even though they were lying down, Marian still somehow managed to hang her head. "I know I've been neglecting you these past few months, and I'm sorry – "

"Marian," the music professor interrupted, cupping her cheek and bringing her to look at him again. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel guilty." His throat started to tighten, but he forced out the words anyway. "I told you that because I love you – want you – _need_ you – "

She looked entreatingly at him. "Make me scream, Harold."

He kissed her, hard. Though they could manage only the missionary position in their exhaustion, Harold was not at all disappointed with their lovemaking, gazing deeply into Marian's eyes as they moved together and making her scream even louder by giving her neck love-bites each time she came. Though it was still only almost-Paris, it was far more than a nice but lackluster consolation prize mustered up with the last ounce of strength after a long and tiring day. Harold could have lived with this. He _should_ have lived with it, instead of trying to tip the scales by bringing out the Pinot Noir. That blasted – damn – _fucking_ wine had ruined everything.

And now the music professor was lying alone on the narrow and uncomfortable emporium sofa, with only the Pinot Noir to keep him company as he reflected just how stupidly he'd overplayed his hand. He really ought to have known better – if Marian hadn't been willing to allow him to make love to her on the kitchen counter, she certainly wasn't going to countenance indulging in an illegal nightcap, regardless of how bold and adventurous she was with him once their bedroom door was closed. But Harold had been too intoxicated by the librarian's unabashed wildness that he wasn't thinking straight. All he'd been thinking was how wonderful it was to _really_ make love to her, body, heart and soul. He missed that. He wanted that. And he was probably never going to get it again.

The music professor's gaze drifted over to the mouthpiece on his desk, still waiting to be unclogged by his deft fingers. He snorted and turned away – he'd handle that little chore tomorrow. Because despite everything that had happened, he was _not_ going down that road. As disheartened and distraught as he was over his present state of affairs, he knew stepping out on his wife would only compound his problems. Harold remembered his wedding vows: _W__ill you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, a__nd __forsaking all others, __keep yourself only unto her_,_ so long as you both shall live__?_ And on top of all that, he'd promised Marian that their yesterdays would always be full. But there was that mutinous voice again – he'd held up _his_ end of the bargain, while Marian had stymied his attempts to keep Paris alive. Not only stymied; she'd said outright that she wished they'd never even gone there. Even – or perhaps especially – knowing just how much their second honeymoon had meant to him.

So if he happened to have a nice dream or two to ease his frustrations, he was no longer going to beat himself up over it. After all, he wasn't _actually_ committing adultery; he was merely taking meager comfort wherever he could find it. Because what else could a man do if he wasn't able to get satisfaction at home? No longer caring what direction his mind wandered, Harold settled himself even deeper into the couch cushions and drifted off to sleep.


	5. The Sin in Sincere

Harold did not dream – his slumber was fitful but otherwise undisturbed. When he finally dragged himself to his feet sometime around seven o'clock the next morning, he felt just as drained and dispirited as he had the night before, and peevishly wondered why he'd bothered to try to sleep at all.

Then his gaze landed on the clogged mouthpiece, and he suddenly remembered. Although he was alone, he felt his face crimson with shame. Not over having sought out another illicit dream – it would serve Marian right, after the way she'd slowly but steadily stifled his ardor if not his advances over the past few months – but that he'd been reduced to such pathetic half-measures in the first place. A real man would do more than _dream_.

But instead of picking up the mouthpiece and unjamming it, Harold found himself leaving the emporium entirely. It was much too early to open, and he needed some fresh air – a brisk constitutional would be just the thing. And when that brisk constitutional led him right to the charming Victorian he'd once happily called home, he told himself he was merely checking on his daughters. After all, he hadn't been around to kiss them goodnight, and they must have missed him terribly. But when he ended up standing at the foot of his bed watching his wife sleep, he could find no excuse for his lack of masculine pride.

Because even after all that had happened, after how deeply Marian had wounded him, he loved her. Utterly, hopelessly, desperately. And she loved him with the same intensity of not just feeling, but need – she was clutching his pillow tightly to her, burying her face in it.

But the prim librarian could no longer admit that to him when she was awake. And he lacked the enthusiasm for prying heated confessions out of her that he once downright relished. Which is why he didn't bother climbing into bed with her, even though every fiber of his being was aching to do just that.

_A real man would do more than dream._

Harold scowled and turned off Marian's alarm clock. It was almost time for her to wake up, but she hadn't so much as stirred at his presence. If it wasn't for that damn alarm, she'd most likely sleep all day; this was especially irritating in light of her criticism that he did nothing around the house except eat her cooking and coddle the twins. So _he'd_ handle getting the girls ready today.

Indeed, Penny and Elly were thrilled to see their father and, after affectionately reproaching him for his absence at bedtime last night, cheerfully obeyed his directive to get ready as quickly and quietly as possible. He was a bit surprised that neither of them so much as raised an eyebrow at his explanation that their mother couldn't see them off as usual because she wasn't feeling well, and he felt a prickle of concern – something might just be wrong with the librarian, after all, if even their children noticed her malaise.

But this just irked Harold even more – Marian's "Iowa stubborn" refusal to admit anything was awry was causing their problems in the first place! When his wife still hadn't awakened by the time the girls were eating their breakfasts, Harold felt a mingled jumble of relief and resentment as he penned a hasty explanation for her to find when she finally managed to rouse herself from slumber:

_Marian –_

_I've taken the liberty of getting Penny and Elly ready for school. They'll be eating lunch at the emporium with me, and then returning there after school, since you'll be at the library this afternoon. I'll send the girls home this evening for dinner._

– _H._

As angry as he was, Harold winced at the coldness of his note as he reread it. He briefly considered crumpling up the paper, sending the girls to school, going upstairs, slipping into bed next to Marian –

Suddenly, Lisette Latimer's longing, hungry glance popped into his head.

– and in his unsettled state, he was in real danger of spilling the beans and damaging their marriage irreparably.

So the terse note was the best he could do right now. It was all he had left to give.

XXX

In the end, it was a lot easier to unclog Billy Latimer's mouthpiece than the music professor had anticipated. After about twenty minutes of painstaking whittling with a piece of wire, Harold managed to dislodge most of the eraser and, after he gave the mouthpiece one hard blow, the final bit emerged with a _pop_. Still, he felt a sense of pride as well as relief that he hadn't chipped the darn thing and, though there didn't appear to be any noticeable dings or scratches, he gave it a thorough polishing for good measure.

After the music professor had completed that little chore, he took a seat in his desk chair and let his mind wander. And as ever, it wandered right to Marian. With a twinge of guilt, Harold remembered that his wife was supposed to open the library today, and he wondered if she'd woken up yet, as it was nearly nine o'clock. All the kids would be in class right now – including his daughters – so there was no one he could send there on one pretext or another. For a moment, he contemplated picking up the phone and calling home, just to check. But he quickly dismissed that idea. If the librarian did pick up, she'd no doubt give him an earful about turning off her alarm, and if the phone rang and rang, he'd still be stuck with the maddening uncertainty as to whether she'd made it to work on time. It was far more practical to cut right to the chase and call the library, instead – and then hang up as soon as Marian answered. That way, he'd be able to ascertain his wife's whereabouts without actually having to talk to her, and she'd dismiss the hang up as a juvenile prank call.

So Harold did just that. And when no one picked up after fifteen rings, he had his answer.

Something was wrong. If the music professor had to guess – he still refused to call home – the librarian continued to sleep soundly, curled up and clutching his pillow to her. But it wasn't like Marian to sleep in, even without her alarm to prompt her to get up. And she had never been so upset or unbalanced after one of their fights that she had to take to bed. If anything, she made herself scarce at home, spending _more_ time at the library whenever the atmosphere was tense between them. But then again, he couldn't recall the last time she had looked so haggard and pale on a regular basis; his heart tightened when he recalled the undeniable air of exhaustion that had hung over her this morning. No decent – let alone devoted – husband would allow his wife to continue in such a precarious state; it was his duty to get to the bottom of what was ailing her, and hopefully Dr. Pyne would be able to intervene before, God forbid, it was too late to stop whatever illness was progressing. Of course, there was a good chance that perhaps her exhaustion and malaise were merely side effects of the change of life. Either way, it was better to _know_, rather than remaining firmly – and potentially dangerously – in denial.

But before he could go barreling into this minefield, Harold had to get a hold on his anger and dissatisfaction. In his present mood, he would be far more likely to provoke another fight, which would only make Marian even more disinclined to confide in him or seek treatment for her condition. And he couldn't afford to make their situation even worse than it already was. It was best if he remained at the emporium for a day or two, until both of their tempers had cooled. Then he'd be in a much better frame of mind to dive into the difficult conversation ahead.

Unsurprisingly, his conscience refused to be assuaged by this rational course of action. _Now, isn't that a beautiful heap of horse manure! Marian's temper hasn't cooled for the past three months. Pick up the phone and_ call _her. Or better yet – go home._

_No_, Harold told this voice, even as it continued to heckle him for his cowardice and perfidy.

And so the morning dragged on. Sensing that the music professor still hadn't quite recovered from being under the weather yesterday, Tommy had thoughtfully left Harold to stew in his own monotony. When lunchtime rolled around, Penny and Elly's arrival provided a welcome distraction, especially in light of the revealing information they had to relate as they blithely chattered about their day: Penny had torn her dress climbing a tree and had to stop at home to change before coming to the emporium for lunch… and was relieved that her mother was not around to scold her for such unladylike behavior. His curiosity piqued, Harold sent each of his daughters on errands – Elly to the library, and Penny to Mrs. Paroo's. Penny returned first, and through roundabout questioning, he learned that his wife had not taken refuge at her mother's, as he'd supposed. Perhaps she'd opened the library, after all. But then Elly came back with the news that not only was Madison Public Library "closed until further notice, due to illness," the note informing the public was in Amaryllis Paroo's handwriting.

Quelling the urge to march right over to Winthrop's house and throttle his well-meaning but tactless sister-in-law for once again saying far more than was necessary, Harold turned his attention to his daughters, who were now all too aware that something was up.

"If Mother's not home resting in bed, then why would she have had Aunt Amaryllis write that note?" Penny wondered aloud, as Elly regarded her father with a worried frown and asked, "Is Mother all right?"

"I don't know," Harold admitted. "But I'm going to give your Aunt Amaryllis a call to see what's going on."

_Liar._

Though the former conman felt a twinge at his mendacity, it was worth seeing the girls brighten. "Can we stay and listen?" Penny had the audacity to ask – though it was clear from Elly's pleading expression that she wanted permission, as well.

"No, you've got to get back to class," Harold insisted. "But don't you worry – I'll have this mystery solved by the end of the school day." As his daughters still looked inclined to protest, he waggled his finger at them. "Go on, now."

_Coward._

Indeed, the music professor did _not_ phone Amaryllis after his daughters exited the emporium. Even if he and Marian weren't fighting, his sister-in-law was the last person he would ever want to involve in a situation like this. Though Harold wouldn't go so far as to call himself a Sherlock Holmes, he had no doubt he could locate the missing librarian entirely on his own steam. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, he starting listing all the possible places she could be, and then mentally ticking off the probability of finding her there:

Home? _No, according to Penny._

Library? _No, according to Elly._

Mrs. Paroo? _No, according to Penny._

Jane Edna Peabody? _No, she's currently visiting her sick aunt in Marshalltown._

Mrs. Shinn or one of the other ladies? _Not likely, there's no Events Committee meeting scheduled for today. Doubtful she'd want such nosy company right now._

Dr. Pyne? _Possibly, but how to check without raising suspicion?_

Amaryllis? _Maybe. Also too nosy for company._

The faraway field? _Doubtful. If she wasn't up to opening the library, she wouldn't have the energy for such a long walk. Still, I wouldn't put it past her to try…_

Cornfield in the middle of nowhere? _Please, God – anywhere but that. I'd never reach her in time._

Train out of town? _Where on earth would she go? Des Moines? Cincinnati? Paris?_

The footbridge? The Candy Kitchen? One of the shops on Center Street? The billiard parlor? _Now this is just getting ridiculous!_

Harold sighed. So far, this exercise had not only proved thoroughly useless, it opened up whole new vistas of alarm for him to ponder. The worst were the visions of Marian fainting en route to her favorite hideaway – which he promptly put out of his mind. She had to be somewhere in River City. The faraway field was _their_ spot now; several years ago, the librarian had divulged that she could no longer go there after they'd fought, because she couldn't bear the idea of poisoning such a dear place with unhappiness. Perhaps she was on the move, and he just kept missing her through sheer coincidence, a ghastly comedy of errors. But how could he go about finding her without tearing around town like a lunatic?

_Call Marcellus. If anyone can maintain a low profile while also keeping his eyes and ears open, he's your man._

So Harold rang up the livery stable. While he was chagrinned but not surprised to learn that Marcellus hadn't crossed paths with the librarian in his travels, it eased the music professor's mind to know that he had someone in his corner – someone he could fully trust to be discreet as well as observant.

But after another hour passed without a word from his loyal comrade, Harold was once again beside himself as panic started to well up inside him. Why hadn't his wife left him or at least the girls a note as to her whereabouts? Even the coldest and tersest missive would have been better than this horrific not knowing! He was suddenly struck by the thought that maybe Marian didn't want to be found – and the notion made him both angry and heartsick. Did they even _have_ a marriage, at this point? What was he going to tell their daughters when they returned to the emporium after school let out for the afternoon? He'd promised them an answer but, for the first time, he'd have absolutely nothing to deliver. Maybe this was Marian's way of getting revenge for the icy note he'd left her this morning. Harold's fists clenched. Shaming him in front of their daughters – this was a new low, even for her! Even if it was inevitable that his reputation as benevolent and all-knowing father would naturally diminish as the girls grew older and perceived his many human failings, his own wife should not be helping to tarnish his standing by engineering such cruel disappointments.

Before the music professor could work himself up into too much of a lather, there was a knock at his office door. His heart foolishly leaped up. _Marian?_

It was Tommy. "Sorry to disturb you, Professor, but Mrs. Latimer is here to see about Billy's mouthpiece."

Harold's eyes widened – in the course of the morning, he had completely forgotten about the widow's pending visit, as his search for Marian consumed him entirely. But his surprise faded as resentment flared up once more. He should never have bothered to hope that it was Marian knocking at his office door. It was too much to expect that, for the first time in her life, the prim and prideful librarian had mustered up both the humility and the gumption to come to him to patch up an argument.

Hiding his pique with a showman's grin, the music professor declared, "The mouthpiece is good as new."

Tommy looked relieved. "Do you want me to take it to Mrs. Latimer?"

Harold shook his head and got to his feet. "I could do with a change of scenery, after being holed up here all morning!"

Brightening even more at the bandleader's apparent recovery of his usual good cheer, Tommy nodded and returned to the shop. As Harold strode out of his office after the young man, his heart pounded crazily. A sensible man would have given the mouthpiece to his second-in-command to pass along – it was reckless to purposely put himself in the vicinity of a woman whose heated glance promised him every single thing he'd been missing from his wife. But what better opportunity to confront Mrs. Latimer head on, while he was still in reasonable control of his baser instincts? Another heated dream or two, and he'd be plotting to contrive a way to cross paths with the widow – and perhaps in less public circumstances. He needed to figure out whatever it was that had happened between them the day of the parade. Most likely, he was captivated by a chimera of his own making, and this silly enchantment of his would fade once he actually talked to Mrs. Latimer.

_Or your attraction to her could increase_, that irritatingly rational and dutiful voice pointed out.

While Harold couldn't deny their encounter could go either way, it was better if he found out sooner rather than later. And he wouldn't know unless he took a chance.

Unsurprisingly, his conscience continued to squawk at this flimsy rationalization, but the music professor muzzled it as he rounded the corner of the hallway and the widow came into view.

"Good afternoon," he said smoothly, extending his hand. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

In response Mrs. Latimer smiled shyly and gave him the briefest and lightest of handclasps in return.

Not only did Harold _not_ feel a tingle when their hands touched, he was turned off by her extremely diffident manner. He preferred flashing eyes, a challenging smile, and a firm handshake from a woman. Lisette Latimer was already shaping up to be exactly the sort of timid little mouse he could barely muster up the enthusiasm to exchange flirtatious pleasantries with, let alone seduce! Still, despite this character flaw, the widow was a lovely and soothing vision of delicate femininity in her pale pink gown. Though he couldn't help noticing, also with a pang of disappointment, that her light-brown locks were not nearly as ringleted or lustrous as they'd been in his fevered imaginings of her tresses cascading down her back, and her figure was a lot reedier than he'd dreamed.

However, Harold wasn't finished quite yet. First impressions of personality could be awfully misleading. "It took some doing, but I managed to unclog Billy's mouthpiece," the music professor informed the widow. "Not a scratch on it!"

At that, Mrs. Latimer's eyes lit up. "Oh, how wonderful!" she said enthusiastically. "I was hoping you'd be able to fix it."

Harold's stomach flip-flopped at the sudden melting of her reserve – fervor brought a delicious crimson flush to her cheeks, which only increased her beauty. But her ease didn't last long. As he held out the mouthpiece for her to take, she carefully avoided brushing his fingers with hers. By the time she withdrew her hand, the tediously tranquil expression had once again settled over her countenance. "Thank you, Professor Hill," she said, her tone flawlessly polite. "How much?"

The music professor normally would have been intrigued, but he found he was actually annoyed. Lisette Latimer blew cold one minute, then hot the next, then back to cold – the last thing he needed in his life was another mercurial minx with a prim exterior! Not that it ultimately mattered what kind of personality the widow had or how wild she was in the bedroom, as he was a married man.

_Yeah, _he thought sullenly. _A married man whose wife doesn't even see fit to let him know where she disappeared to!_ Given that Marian had abandoned him, he felt no compunction in continuing to stand there and chat with Mrs. Latimer, even after the conclusion of their business transaction.

"No charge," he said graciously, and then launched into the dazzling small talk he excelled at. Although Mrs. Latimer merely listened to him with a placid smile and only responded with brief answers when absolutely necessary, she seemed just as loath to leave his company as he was to let her depart. Harold found her agreeable demeanor pleasant but dull; again, he reflected that a woman needed to have more snap and fire to hold his interest. But no matter – he manufactured enough wit to keep them both amused. And while their conversation was nowhere near the sparkling give-and-take repartee he relished engaging in with Marian, it was nice to have an admiring audience. He still hadn't crossed any lines, either, as he took care to say nothing that could be construed as outright flirting. When Billy Latimer arrived at the emporium and came over to join them, it seemed to provide even more proof that he wasn't actually doing anything untoward.

However, as Harold prattled on to both the widow and her son, showing them all sorts of gew gaws they didn't actually need for the boy's trumpet, his stomach continued to churn uneasily. As the minutes ticked by, he gradually became aware of a pair of disapproving eyes on him, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Did someone suspect? The music professor shot a glance at Tommy. His second-in-command was smirking, but not in censure – clearly, he supposed Harold was engaging in his usual trick of making a customer feel like the most important person in the room. Who else could it be, then? The boys were starting to trickle into the emporium, but they continued on through the shop to the auditorium, as it was nearly time for rehearsal. Other than that, there were few customers lingering in the shop, and they were going about their business, unfazed by the perfectly innocent tableau of the bandleader talking with a boy and his mother.

Except for John Carlisle, that is.

John Carlisle was a farmer north of town whose son was also in the band. He was a quiet and stoic man who kept to himself – not at all bad looking, but otherwise so unremarkable as to go unnoticed by the widows and spinsters seeking to catch a husband. Not that he appeared to mind being overlooked, as he had never attempted to so much as court another lady after his wife passed away several years ago. This was a man who faded into the backdrop just as effortlessly and naturally as Professor Hill drew attention. Though John Carlisle might have seemed taciturn to the casual observer, Harold knew from the farmer's rigid posture and quiet but hard gaze that he was most decidedly out of sorts. _Jealous?_ the music professor thought wolfishly, aiming a brief but insolent smile in the man's direction. At that, Farmer John's fists clenched, and he glared openly at Harold with a thundercloud expression. But as ever, he remained in the periphery, so no one else noticed his upset.

_You're playing with fire, Hill_, his mind warned. Yet he continued to throw even more coal on the inferno. Mrs. Latimer, for all her diffidence, had become quite comfortable in his presence, and the longer he talked, the more enamored her gaze grew. Though Harold had despaired of ever exchanging scintillating banter with the widow, the roses in her cheeks were too delectable to let fade just yet. It wasn't long before Farmer John started twitching where he stood, as if he was just barely holding back from pouncing. As Harold regarded the sturdy, muscular man from the corner of his eye, he remembered Mrs. Dunlop – or was it one of the other clucking hens? – telling him that John Carlisle had won several trophies for wrestling in high school. Even if he hadn't been facing such a formidable adversary, Harold's best weapon had always been his silver tongue; on the rare occasions he couldn't smooth-talk his way out of trouble and push literally came to shove, his nimble agility was no match for brute force. Thank whatever fortune, fate or deity for Marcellus Washburn, who'd never hesitated to play the heavy on his behalf! But the former charlatan's comrade was not in the vicinity at present, so there was no one to leap to his defense if things got ugly.

_Stop this before it's too late._

Still, Harold kept going. Nobody else was aware of these unsavory undercurrents – all eyes were riveted to him, as usual. And by now, he had drawn a crowd with his repartee. Whatever was going on between him and Mrs. Latimer – if there was even anything, at this point! – it certainly wasn't an intimate, flirtatious tête-à-tête. Surrounded by a bevy of admirers, the music professor felt as if he were holding court in the grand and lordly style of Henry the Eighth. The timorous widow was now merely one of the many hanging on to his every word.

However, that didn't stop John Carlisle from looking daggers at him. But Harold wasn't worried – if Farmer John did lose his temper and attack, people would be stunned and appalled by this seemingly unexpected outburst, and public opinion would immediately side with the music professor. Still, it _was_ awfully foolhardy of him to risk bodily harm. Why was he doing this? Curiosity? Boredom? Seeking just desserts for his own perversity? Deep down, Harold knew perfectly well he deserved a good punch in the face for what he was doing to both the poor, besotted widow and the man who carried a real torch for her.

And the music professor just might have earned that decking, after all, if he hadn't derailed his own exhibition by saying something that so uproariously hilarious that even Lisette Latimer couldn't help bursting into unrestrained laughter.

Granted, she wasn't the only one who laughed at his remark. But she laughed the longest and the loudest. And the sound that resulted was a ghastly combination of a donkey's bray and hyena's screech, which mingled to produce the oddest and most ungainly laugh Harold had ever heard coming from a woman. The final remnants of the queer hold Lisette Latimer had on him dissipated, and he likewise burst into laughter. It wasn't long before the other River City-ziens, who had been stunned into silence by the widow's raucous display, joined him in his jollity, though they at least had the grace to keep their eyes trained anywhere besides Mrs. Latimer, who was now gazing at the music professor with a hurt and affronted expression.

"Oh dear," Harold said apologetically, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes. "You'll have to forgive me" – another bout of uncontrollable laughter seized him – "I didn't get a good night's sleep last night… "

He was so close to recovering his composure, but a snicker from Tommy set him off again. And the music professor kept laughing, even as he saw Lisette Latimer falling out of love with him with each guffaw that shook his frame. By the time he finally regained full control of his faculties, he'd permanently damaged his standing in the widow's eyes – no amount of flattery could ever coax her back into admiring him.

While Harold was sorry to have hurt the lonely widow – and if truth be told, his pride smarted a bit at having repulsed a pretty woman – he was mostly relieved that the attraction between them was now thoroughly destroyed on both sides. But he did feel a twinge of regret when he saw Billy looking pensively at him, as if he was seeing his beloved Professor Hill with entirely new eyes. When Mrs. Latimer stiffly informed her son that it was time to go home, the boy didn't protest, even though band rehearsal was due to start in fifteen minutes. Likewise, Farmer John collected his son – who did put up a fuss, but was quickly silenced by his father's sharp glance – and left right after her. Harold didn't press the widow or farmer to let their boys stay – his enterprise would survive their lack of patronage. In any case, it was far better to lose a few customers than it would have been to lose the love of his daughters, who were presently giggling behind their hands as they watched the scene unfold.

After the group surrounding the music professor dispersed and all the kids trooped into the auditorium, Tommy let loose. "Boy, you sure made a mess of that one, Professor!"

Feeling lighter than he had since the afternoon of that fateful parade, Harold shrugged. "You win some, you lose some." With that, he left the shop in his second-in-command's capable hands and headed back to his office to gather the materials he needed for that afternoon's rehearsal.

However, although the music professor had once again come out on top – not only was Mrs. Latimer no longer an alluring siren, she would no longer look at him as a shining Adonis – he felt strangely dejected. Not because he'd missed out on a passionate tryst with a pretty woman – no matter how hungry the widow's glance had been, he doubted that placidly smiling mouth had ever dared to utter a single one of those scandalous and heated words he'd imagined – but because it was merely one dream-chimera he'd slayed today. Lisette Latimer wasn't the only pretty face and fawning admirer in River City, and despite his best and noblest intentions, Harold didn't have it in him to live as a monk if his wife continued to play the blushing rose with him. Should their estrangement continue, someone else could easily strike his fancy – someone with a sweeter laugh and a livelier personality. Even though this attraction would be fleeting and even though he'd do his damnedest to ignore it until it passed, it was an inconvenience and a danger he didn't need or want.

Because no matter what temptations might entice him to stray from the path he'd chosen, Harold refused to go back to the cold and empty existence of conman and philanderer he'd left behind so long ago. He didn't want an endless parade of pretty strangers flitting in and out of his bed, he wanted to spend long, languid nights entwined with the woman who knew and loved every inch of him, body, heart and soul. It was Marian he wanted to make laugh uproariously, Marian he wanted to gaze at him with naked adoration, Marian he wanted to make scandalous love to. He had to find her as soon as rehearsal was over, and he had to talk to her – really talk to her. Even if she wasn't ready to talk to him, he had to at least try.

And if he wanted to win the librarian back to him, he had to forget about Paris. As Marian had constantly – and rightly – reminded him over the past few months, they had full and active lives in River City. Even if there were no gossips to gainsay their romantic flights of fancy at Madison Public Library or the Candy Kitchen or the footbridge, the music professor and librarian had children to raise, a household to maintain, a business and library to run, and a whole host of social and civic obligations on top of those. Their days would never be as leisurely and carefree as they were on their second honeymoon, and Harold would miss that. Even now, he felt a mutinous twinge of resentment at the idea of giving up the expectation that their lovemaking could achieve the heights of Paris ever again. But it was the only way forward. He'd spent far too much time trying to relive the past and ignoring the problems they were having in the present, problems that would ultimately doom their marriage if they didn't get to the bottom of them. As long as Marian still loved and wanted him as much as he loved and wanted her, he wasn't going to rest until things felt _right_ between them again.

Resolved, the music professor headed to the auditorium for rehearsal.

XXX

_A/N – A shout-out to Emery Saks' delightful fic Mischief Managed, which gave me the idea for the jammed mouthpiece!_


	6. To Get the Sun Back in the Sky

"Harold, I'm pregnant."

Those three little words had changed everything. It was a phrase Harold never expected to hear from his wife again in any shape or form, let alone her hurling it at him almost as if it was an invective – or a curse. Granted, he couldn't blame her for her distinct lack of joy, as he'd been awfully short with her. But it stung to see the apprehension and dread in her eyes, as if she wasn't expecting him to welcome this news.

And why should she? Here he'd been holed up in his office stewing in his petty anger even after she'd come to him – wearing one of her lovely and elegant Paris originals, no less! – and tried to reconcile. When Marian later gave him a full accounting of her day before she arrived at the emporium – woke up feeling nauseated around eleven, had Amaryllis put a note on the library door because she was the only one available, visited Dr. Pyne after her stomach settled, went to her mother's, unexpectedly hosted Mrs. Shinn and her ladies – Harold felt like even more of a cad than he already did. It was a comedy of errors that he couldn't find her, after all.

He'd been such a fool – a reckless reprobate. It was a terrible risk he'd taken, confronting Mrs. Latimer head on like that. At a time when Harold was furious with Marian, his will to resist that kind of dangerous attraction was perilously low. Suppose he'd been even more enchanted by the widow instead of turned off? Would he have been so weak, and so dispirited by his wife's seemingly immovable primness and mercurial moods, as to capitulate and throw his marriage away entirely?

It was a terrifying scenario to contemplate. And it was something he could never, ever reveal to Marian – especially not after she'd finally let go of her sadly not-so-unfounded fears that he might leave her someday, if their lovemaking no longer thrilled and excited him. However, although he'd been weighed in the balance and found wanting, Harold was determined to prove not just to his wife, but himself, that he was a faithful and devoted husband until the end. Carrying this burden alone to the grave would be his rightful penance, the best and only way he could atone for all the times these past few months that he'd failed and disappointed the woman he loved.

Yet at the same time, even Harold's obstinate conscience allowed that it would do no good to dwell any further on a situation that never happened, especially when he now had so much to look forward to in the future – not just the revival of their passion, but the third child he could now fully admit he'd so desperately wanted. When he recalled how hopeless and bleak life had seemed this morning, compared to the sheer elation he felt now, it made his head spin. Marian had not only come to him without prompting and poured out everything that had been in her heart, she had attempted to seduce him in his office. If it hadn't been for her condition, the music professor would have instantly and happily taken her up on her offer – what better way to banish any lingering remembrances of that illicit dream for good? Instead, he'd filed that delight away as something to look forward to in the future, once she'd recovered from childbirth. And for the first time in awhile, he did not feel in the least chafed by his husbandly duty of forbearance. After the night they proceeded to have, first on the sofa in the parlor and then in their bedroom as Marian gave him a steamy fashion show, whispering heated reminiscences into his ear as well as promises that they were going to continue to make new memories, he could not have been more satisfied with their lovemaking.

It was nearly midnight now, and the librarian lay cradled in her husband's arms, slumbering soundly. As she slept, Harold traced the lace edging of her latest negligee. It was a sheer crimson little number he'd never seen on her before – she'd secretly bought it in New York City on their way home, she told him as she straddled his lap and stroked his mussed curls. Marian had intended to surprise him with it one night, but it accidentally got packed away with all her Paris things, and she'd completely forgotten about it. Touched by this wonderful and unexpected romantic gesture, the music professor had insisted that his wife keep this garment _on_ while he then proceeded to make tender and passionate love to her until they both collapsed in happy exhaustion.

But Harold was too restless – and, if truth be told, still wrestling with his guilty conscience – to join Marian in slumber. Scooting down to kiss his wife's gently rounded stomach, he whispered, "I don't deserve you – _either_ of you. But you have my solemn promise that I'll do my darnedest to make up for that."

As it turned out, Marian had woken up – and she'd heard him. "Of course you deserve us," she chided. "It's _I_ that don't deserve you."

Harold's brow quirked. "How do you figure, my dear little librarian?"

She pulled him up to hold her again, even as she clasped his hand to her stomach. "I've scolded you, and been short with you, and put everything – the children, the house, the library, the prudish sensibilities of River City's horrid, frigid gossips – before our lovemaking." Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, and her voice wavered as she continued, "But the worst of my sins is that I didn't tell you of my suspicion I was expecting when I should have, because I doubted you."

Harold's stomach churned unpleasantly – had she known about his silly fancy, after all? "Doubted me?" he managed to choke out.

"Oh – not that you'd abandon me, or anything like that!" Marian hastily assured him. She bit her lip. "It's just that – I thought you might be disappointed, and the idea of you being unhappy about me having another child hurt tremendously. It hurt even more to think about you trying so hard to hide your true feelings from me about this pregnancy – I didn't doubt you would have tried very hard." Her arms tightened around him. "And I couldn't bear it."

Somehow, Harold managed to speak around the lump massing in his throat. "Marian – I _wanted_ another baby with you. I always have. If I wasn't such an old man, I would've wanted to keep expanding our family to three, four, five, maybe even six children… "

The librarian giggled, even as a few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. "_Six_ children? I'm not sure I'd be able to handle that many!" She nestled even closer to him. "But I always thought three children – or four, if we have twins again – would be ideal… "

The music professor looked shrewdly at his wife. "Were _you_ a little bit disappointed when you suspected you were pregnant?"

Marian shook her head vehemently. "Even after the girls were born and we had gotten our two children, I felt our family wasn't entirely complete. Deep down, I was hoping for another child, even if I dismissed such yearnings as too impractical." She sighed. "But there never seemed to be the right time to try for one. So when I began to suspect I was pregnant, my feelings were complicated. Even as part of me hoped, a much larger part wasn't ready to contemplate how it would affect our marriage. We were arguing about chores and the girls and the propriety of passionate lovemaking, and I knew the physical and emotional stresses of pregnancy would only exacerbate our troubles. I remembered how much of a shrew I was to you during my first pregnancy, and I didn't want to be that way again." Tears started streaming down her face. "But I felt so exhausted and out of sorts that I ended up being a shrew to you, anyway. I forgot how difficult and all-consuming this condition could be – just _look_ at me, crying at the drop of a hat!" She laughed and wiped her eyes. "But even as I regretted how cold and distant and snappish I was with you, and resolved to do better, I couldn't bring myself to take a long, hard look at what was fueling these ill tempers. Because I also remembered how afraid you were to touch me when I was carrying the girls, and I couldn't stand having to go through that again, even if, as it thankfully turned out, you were happy about this turn of events. I _need_ you as much as you need me, Harold."

Even as his heart constricted, he couldn't help grinning. "Well, I certainly haven't been afraid to touch you tonight, have I?" he pointed out, cupping her backside with his palm for good measure. "And you'll have to forgive me for my reticence during your first pregnancy – the jitters of a first-time father who didn't know what to expect." He pressed his hips against hers. "But this time around, I'm _very_ well-versed that making passionate love to my pregnant wife isn't going to break her or our child."

"Well… you _were_ a little hesitant at first, downstairs in the parlor when I tried to seduce you," she said with a sad smile. "And you wouldn't let me make love to you in your office."

"Oh, I'm saving _that_ little rendezvous for later," he promised, kissing her neck. "I want to think about it, plan it out – the way I did our first tryst at the faraway field." His voice grew throatier, his kisses harder. "I want _you_ to think about me thinking about all the wanton, decadent, scandalous ways we're going to make love in my office someday. Everywhere and everything you can think of, we'll do – on the couch, on the desk, in my chair, against the wall where I've given you so many love-bites over the years… "

Marian let out a delicious moan at that – her breathing had gotten very heavy, and Harold had grown very hard, and he was strongly tempted to make love to her. But there was still one more thing he needed to resolve before he could let this conversation drop, and he wasn't about to fall back into the same pattern of procrastination, no matter how loudly his body was screaming at him to _go, go, go!_ as the librarian parted her warm thighs to grant him more intimate access.

"Marian," he said, lifting his head to look at her – and then he had to swallow before continuing, as he'd gotten choked up again. "What made you come to me and spill the beans about your pregnancy, after our worst fight yet? The reason I'm asking is because earlier, you asked me if I would've welcomed your overtures to reconcile if you hadn't revealed your condition. Although I was planning to come home for dinner, I can't deny that learning you were carrying my child broke through my anger like nothing else could have. But would _you_ have sought me out at the emporium, if you hadn't had that news to share?"

"Probably not," she admitted, averting her gaze. "But in this instance, I was driven by a desperation that was so strong it overwhelmed my blasted pride – I _had_ to do something to try to fix what was wrong between us. I'd put all thoughts and even hopes of pregnancy firmly out of my head until this morning, when I woke up with my worst bout of nausea yet. And when the Irish stew the girls brought home from Mama's last night made me ill, I could no longer ignore not only my condition, but the role I had played in causing our estrangement." She shook her head in disgust. "And to think, most if not all of this uncertainty and unhappiness could have been avoided if I had plucked up the courage to talk to you earlier this summer!"

"Well, we're remedying that now, my dear little librarian," Harold said soothingly, planting a soft kiss on her temple. Then it was his turn to shake his head at his own foolishness. "And here _I'd_ been thinking your mercurial moods and weeping during lovemaking were caused by you going through the change!"

To his relief, Marian was not offended by his ignorance. On the contrary – she burst into laughter. "That's not an entirely unwarranted suspicion… if I was approaching fifty instead of forty, that is! You really thought that was the case?"

"What I know about that part of a woman's life wouldn't even be enough for a full paragraph," he said sheepishly. "But I really should have known better – especially after your own mother gave birth to Winthrop when she was older than you! I suppose I was afraid to get my hopes up, too… "

The librarian gave her husband an indulgent smile. "Well, even I couldn't help wondering if it was the change at first, because I did spot here and there, something that hadn't happened at all with Penny and Elly. It wasn't enough for a true course, but just enough for me to entertain the idea that I wasn't pregnant, after all." She blushed slightly. "It worried me when I found out I was expecting, but both Dr. Pyne and my mother assured me a little bit of bleeding wasn't at all unusual in the early stages. So I don't know too much more than you do about that aspect of a woman's life, it seems!"

Marian laughed again, and Harold reveled in the sound. He remembered the first time he'd ever heard the librarian laugh – really laugh. It happened during their earliest days of courting, when she was still Marian Paroo. About a week after they'd sent the poisonous Priscilla Harper packing, he and Marian were alone in the emporium's auditorium together. Band rehearsal had just ended, and Harold was proudly demonstrating how he'd taught himself _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_ on the trumpet using the Think System. He did a fairly decent job on the tune until he reached the final note, which bleated shrilly and then trailed off like a dying lamb. At that, the strait-laced librarian had completely lost it, laughing herself silly until tears were streaming down her cheeks. Harold was admittedly a bit sore at her reception of his performance, but he was even more enchanted by the sight of Marian surrendering to abandon. It was the first time he'd ever seen her in hysterics, and he couldn't help picturing in his mind what she might look like in _other_ states of unrestrained delight…

No matter how beautiful Mrs. Latimer's or any other woman's laugh might have been, it never would have moved him the way Marian's mirth did. The librarian's laugh was golden and musical, like everything else about her.

Marian sobered up. "Harold, what's the matter?"

_I could have lost all this. I could have lost _you_._

He'd come so close to falling down the rabbit hole of temptation – hell, he'd leaped into it headfirst! And for what? A foolish and fleeting fancy that would have cost him everyone he loved and everything he'd worked so hard to build over the past decade, had he been stupid enough to surrender to his baser nature.

But he had to get a hold of himself. This was _his_ burden to carry. He would not trouble Marian with the capriciousness of his wayward heart – especially now that he was no longer in any danger from that particular temptation.

"It's been a rough three months," was all the music professor managed to get out, before breaking down completely.

"Oh Harold," Marian cooed repentantly, stroking his hair as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. "I've been a coward, and I'm so sorry. I promise to do better in the future… "

"_Don't_, Marian," he pleaded, even as he continued to tremble in her arms. He couldn't bear her apologies. "I'm the one who's been an even bigger coward. I knew something wasn't quite right with you, with _us_, but I was afraid to rock the boat. I was too damn selfish, wanting Paris lovemaking and sulking when you couldn't quite give it to me. And when I thought you were going through the change, I was upset – not at you, but at the loss of a dream I didn't fully realize I'd been harboring until it seemed I'd lost all hope of achieving it." He scooted down to kiss and caress her stomach with quaking fingers. "Now that we _are_ having another baby, I'm over the moon."

"And we'll always have Paris – _always_," Marian added, her voice shaking right along with his hands. She pulled him upward until their bodies were pressed together and they were looking deeply into each other's eyes. Though Harold saw she'd also been weeping, he was not disheartened. Right or wrong, he was already hard for her, and when he saw that alluringly come-hither look in her eyes, he wanted her even more.

"Let's forgive each other now, Harold," his wife said huskily as she reached down, without shame or preamble, to guide him into her. "Tell me again all the ways you'll make love to me in your office someday, and I'll tell _you_ what you have to look forward to the next time we're alone together in the kitchen… "


End file.
